Bring your Convictions
by Alternative NonFiction
Summary: When Courier met Courier at the edge of the Divide, only the intervention of an unknown entity kept them alive. Now in Skyrim, these godlike individuals will blaze their trails for the symbols they believe in, and the convictions they hold dear. That doesn't mean that they're safe from their past lives though.
1. Prologue

The first thing he heard after stepping out of the elevator, was the Geiger counter on his pip-boy quietly ticking away in a vast chamber with a vaulted ceiling. The sight of it, made David Ishmael Kelly instantly think of ancient cathedrals built far-away and long ago in an older world as monuments to gods and kings now forgotten by many.

Only a select few cults though, would be mad enough to choose this place as their temple to a higher power. Along the walls of the poorly lit temple, he saw the dim outlines of what could only be nuclear missiles linked together like two giant machine gun belts feeding one big receiver.

The implications were starting sink in, and he was certain that his bowels were turning into water. There was enough destruction in here to burn the Mojave at least three times over. Elijah's plan to gas the Mojave looked downright silly next to this. As someone who had spent a good part of their adult life carrying danger, this was easily the most horrifying delivery he would ever make.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of two eyebots speeding across the chamber towards its edge, where a low rumble of metal on metal could be heard coming from the ceiling. A shaft of light came down through the opening ceiling and shone down on a large circular platform at the edge.

Over the dais, a skeletal gantry stood towering over the launchpad like a ladder. Closer to the center, two twisted steel girders stood on each side of the platform, and from a line that stretched between them, the old flag of the United States hung from the towers meant to hold the missiles in place, draped down like one great big tattered shower curtain.

David could make out the shape of a ballistic missile emerging from the center of the temple like a flower growing in the sunlight. The eyebots began to fly lazy circles around the emerging missile and the lone figure who stood at it's base.

On the back of his duster, a familiar symbol of the old world stared at him defiantly, its white stars shining in the light, and its red stripes hanging below like trails of blood. His arms dark skinned and muscular, covered in what were probably tribal tattoos. His hair was a massive dark brown collection of dreadlocks, which only served to remind David of the fury he had felt upon learning of the destruction of New Canaan at the hands of a tribe of savage chalk-powder coated fucks.

As David approached the lone figure, he couldn't help but feel a presence of sorts, like a mythical hero of old. To think Johnson Nash had called this man a deadbeat once. His head stared at the ascending missile. One hand clasped a golden staff topped with some pommel, and by his side hung a 12.7mm submachine gun.

"I came. Just as you knew I would." David growled when he reached the edge of the launchpad. Ulysses slowly turned to face him. A pair of hazel eyes alive with hate glared down on him, the only readable feature on a face mostly obscured by a respirator.

"Your city, Vegas lies behind you, with the rest of its slaves." The low guttural voice of Ulysses was made even more sinister by the mask he wore. "Or is it just you, Courier, without the lights and ghosts. Judging by your shadow, you can't seem to let your machine go. Doesn't matter now." Ulysses snorted and crossed his arms. "Either way, the divide giants are awakening. The missiles here on their way home. There is no way to stop them."

"I still can't understand why you're doing this." David desperately tried to keep his voice calm.

A low guttural sound escaped his mask. "You've answered your question. And you'll die with that question on your lips. You don't see, listen. Even when it's all around you, no matter if I nailed it to your head like a gift from Caesar. You brought the divide to life, brought the bear, then the bull, brought me, following your tracks. And when I saw the divide you made, I saw a second chance, a new way of thinking. My world, no longer the East."

His tone lowered with contempt, "but then you brought the West in that package. Destroyed it all. Nearly killed me, flesh and spirit."

He continued his speech, "you destroyed something larger than the bear, greater than the bull. Even when you could have turned away, you brought it again, in that machine." Ulysses nearly hissed out his acknowledgment of ED-E.

"You destroyed a nation taking it's first breath. A place that could have been my home. Now I'll destroy yours."

 _As if New Canaan just wasn't fucking enough. Just how many tribes and nations did you help butcher and enslave,_ David raged to himself. When he spoke in turn, he found that he had a hard time finding his words.

"What happened at the Divide," David lost his voice only to find it after a few long seconds that seemed like eternity. "What I did, was an accident. What you are doing, is madness."

"No," Ulysses growled. "There is purpose. I believe you when you say that you were... _careless_. The Divide... The Chip... The machine you brought here... Many messages can be taken from that real or intended or not. What I do now, is an act of conviction."

This time he found the nerve to call out Ulysses on his bullshit. "If you blame me for the divide, then let me be the one to answer for it, I mean, can this be worth the lives of thousands of innocents."

"Blame you?" Ulysses asked incredulously as if the idea was madness. "Learned from you. Both the weapon to kill a nation, and the strength to do it. You showed me a road, a way to carry my message. You've already answered for what you've done."

"So you're just going to bomb the Mojave. Just for shits and giggles." He gritted his teeth with annoyance. Another madman wanting to reshape the Southwest, into their own twisted image.

The Sierra Madre had Father Elijah who dreamed of freezing the desert in time and killing all stuborn vestiges of civilization. Arizona had Edward Sallow who now dreamed of making old sin city his playground of evil. The Divide had this projectionist hypocrite.

The conversation that he had with Elijah at the big MT must have really been something. At least House, the vicious pychopath he was, could be made to see reason. House was capable of creating a plan for the future that did not require mass murder, despite his wilingness to silence entire communites for nothing more projected opposition to his rule.

"No, not the Mohave." Ulysses continued to explain himself like a super villain from an old world comic book. "The West, and all that has been built since America died. Same symbols as carried before the war, now a flag carried by a tribe of children." The man in the sleeveless duster tilted his head slightly to indicate the flag of the old world that hung behind him. "You walked the West, didn't stay. You know the reason... The Bear grows without structure, follows a symbol without knowing its history. Without NCR to support it, Vegas will fall to the Legion. That grave of lights, back to dust and ghosts as it was meant. After this, only one flag will remain over the Mohave. Let that one fly, or destroy itself."

"You know, As bad as this looks, you still don't have all the missiles you need to do that." David spoke hoping that it was true. At the very least each missile was a reminder for god only knew how many innocents would have to be baptized in nuclear fire for somebody's concept of a glorious, abstract tomorrow.

He laughed gutturally, "No need to destroy the Bear, just cut its throat. You taught me that, here in the Divide... Only need to cut off the supply line, the road, to watch something greater die. I'll turn the long 15 into miles of fire, cut off the Mojave. The Bear will fall back, lose Hoover Dam, and leave their throats exposed to the Legion."

David could feel the panic welling up within. House's defenses would only go so far, and the numbers he ran for having a chance to knock out any missiles while still in the divide were slim to none. On the other hand, if the missiles were anything like the one in Ashton...

He shuddered at the memory, of the launch, the terror of helplessly watching the missile leave the silo, and the searing heat of the blast moments later as he was curled up in a fetal position sobbing uncontrollably.

There was still hope however, he didn't know if Ulysses was aware, but ED-E had been modified many times over, with the most recent addition being a deep range transmitter. The transmitter was a pre-war design, small enough to fit in ED-E, but strong enough to send a signal to planets undiscovered. The design had been taken by House from a fellow CIT student who founded an aerospace company known as Arc-jet Systems, that House had tried to acquire not long after his hostile takeover of Repconn.

After Ulysses stole ED-E, David teleported himself to big MT. There he was joined by House, whose mainframe had established a connection with the Think Tank via satellite.

House concocted the plan. He would use his Pip-boy to track down ED-E, then install the transmitter which the sink had built to order.

With the help of the Transmitter, House could remote in to ED-E, and the Missiles would be disarmed. Once down, the detonator in his pack would handle the rest. That only left Ulysses.

Without looking, he sent the waiting command on his pip-boy. One moment later, ED-E turned on the signal.

"So how far are you willing to take that promise to Caesar not to kill other Couriers, especially ones making deliveries?" Though he had long since made up his mind to kill Ulysses, he wanted to see if he could force the last of the Twisted Hairs to stand idly by as he foiled the launch.

"Don't need to kill you. Divide's not done with you yet." His eyes suddenly betrayed the fact that he was ready to die if it meant taking David with him. The meaning, as scary as it was, was lost on David, but he knew would have to act quickly.

ED-E chirped, and he knew that House had received the call. He lifted the pip boy closer with his left arm, keeping his right clear all the while. A single prompt took over the screen of his pip-boy, 'AUTHORIZE REMOTE ACCESS,' it said.

"Ironic isn't it Ulysses? For the second time, I bring a package to the divide. First time I was convicted, but this time, I come here to commit my own act of conviction.

David's lips twitched into the beginnings of a smirk, as he pressed the select key on his computer. A second later, the Eyebot buzzed away towards the control console.

"Took my sweet time in getting here. You could have launched the missiles before I knew what was happening, but you didn't." He smirked as the realization dawned on the man wearing an old world flag. Behind him to his left, ED-E made a connection with the console and began his work. If left uninterrupted, House would brute force the kill code in no time. "You were right about the Rangers by the way. They remember me. They remember what I did."

"You took their lives courier, damning them to this place." Ulysses grunted. "Before that, you were just a man from the wrong tribe. Now you live one great lie."

He felt his smirk expand into a grin.

"That man died in the Divide, so that I might survive. Kind of like the Rangers you might say."

"The Bear will know your secret, It's why you went back to being a courier"

He lauged a weak laugh. "A lot of dead men keep my secrets, but thats nothing to the lives that will be ruined when they find out. I think you know how this has to end."

Ulysses snarled through his mask. "Then I'll finish history's work. If the Divide couldn't kill you... perhaps these old world missiles can. Let's end this Courier, you and I. Here with the Old World flag as witness."

"You are as much a hypocrite as Caesar." It was David's turn to snarl. "You want me to suffer for all those who suffered in the Divide, but I've crossed your trail, seen the damage you've commited fully aware of the consequences. Remember New Canaan, you and your White Legs murdered children out of spite. How about the Big Empty? You broke thier loops, got them to think about all the helpless people who could die for science, just so you could figure out how to launch nukes. What about Father Elijah who found a chemical weapon in the Sierra Madre.

I like to think I've spent too much time saving the world from the evils you've unleashed, you fucking hypocrite. I'm not playing by your rules. I'm going to decommission these weapons, or should I say House is doing that right now."

His face contorted with rage upon the mention of House, and David knew it was time.

"The Mojave sorted me out, made me strong." He spoke mockingly, "The Divide put me at the top of the food chain. Make a move you piece of human garbage, and you'll find out how I put father Elijah in the ground, how I made the Big Empty my bitch, how I put down the White Legs in the name of Joshua Graham. I'll be coming for what's left of Edward Sallow's scalp once I have yours!"

Ulysses reached in his duster and produced a flash bang, as he dropped his hand to the magnum revolver on his right side. By the time he cleared leather, the grenade was in the air. Time slowed to a crawl as David leveled the gun, and squeezed the trigger. The shot went low, and missed. With his left, he cocked the hammer back, and this shot pierced the flash bang.

The explosion of white light from the flash bang stunned both of them, and for a few moments, they must have just stood facing each other. As soon as he came to his senses, he fired off a round at his torso. The bullet went high and struck Ulysses, in his shoulder.

Then, the last of the Twisted Hairs, just simply vanished as a stealth boy cloaked him in darkness. _Fuck you_ _pal_ _, I can play that game too,_ thought David. He dug into his satchel, and pulled out a Stealth boy, snapped it onto his riot gear, and disappeared.

David began moving slowly to the left, careful not to make too much noise. He began to look around for telltale signs of Stealth boy use, and noticed one of the eyebots, painted in red and white trying to administer medical aid.

The other eyebot began firing on ED-E. On his left side hung the Sonic-Emitter he got from Big MT. Drawing the weapon, he slipped into VATS, and let the sound waves knock the eyebot against the nearest wall, ripping off its antennae.

Turning back to the base of the launchpad where he knew Ulysses would be, he pulled a frag grenade from his belt, and lobbed it at the pedestal. Suddenly, a big hulking figure shrouded in illusion sprang into action diving from his spot, and with an elegant forward roll before he lost track of the shrouded figure. The grenade exploded, and clearly did not even scratch it's target.

He let the emitter loose on the general direction, with only an indirect hit on the active med-bot. The impact did not knock it out of the air. Instead, the machine instantly disappeared in a belch of ozone, vanishing before he finish the job.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath. _The son of a bitch must have wired a_ _S_ _tea_ _lt_ _h boy on that eyebot._

David looked around, suddenly aware of the sound of that god awful Klaxon alarm screaming somewhere in this cathedral to death. The surviving eyebot was nowhere to be found, and neither was Ulysses.

The rush of a cloaked figure came at him from his left. He barely had time to get out of the way. David side stepped, leaving Ulysses to trip over his own momentum. As his enemy fell, a large rough hand grabbed him by the arm and yanked him down spinning to the ground. He fell beside Ulysses, arms in front of him braced for the fall.

He tried to get up only to have a pole slam against the back of his helmet, the impact nearly flattening him. His left arm buckled, and he rolled to his side, drawing a Bowie knife from his boot with his right.

A hand strong as iron smacked, then grabbed his wrist, and with a lunge, forced him on his back. The massive pack he carried involuntarily arched his back nearly exposing his throat, with no protection save for that of the stealth boy. A knee came down on his groin, and another hand kept tapping him all over the chest for weakness. "I'll end you and your history," Ulysses sneered as the hand came down on his throat.

With all the strength he had, he lifted his left arm, and followed the noise. His arm made contact with what had to be the face of Ulysses, and bashed him across his temple with his pip boy hard enough that it clearly knocked something loose.

The grip which was only a moment ago determined to choke the life from him, was suddenly lifted. David was about to lift his arm for another strike, when all of the sudden, the report of a three round burst reverberated through the chamber, and wild shots whizzed over their heads.

Like a cat, Ulysses sprang into action practically leaping off of him, and taking cover somewhere.

David got to his feet quick as he could, several more shots filling the air. From where he stood to the elevator, were half a dozen marked men seeking out his form.

"What the Hell?" He spoke aloud to nobody in particular.

"The dead men of the New World, they come for you." Ulysses answered his question from somewhere he couldn't quite pin down.

For one terrible moment, He could only gape in horror as Marked men by the dozen stormed through the entrance.

He dropped to one knee, and snatched the Holorifle from his pack. He flicked the MF breeder on, the safety off, and fired at the closest one. The weapon jumped in his hands as it struck the ghoul in the chest and liquified his torso.

The flash of the rifle was not hidden by the stealth boy, and quickly attracted attention of another ghoul who turned his weapon towards the flash, but then fell against as the sound of a few shots came from somewhere around the platform.

From somewhere on the on other end, he saw the flashes of an automatic weapon, whose bullets ripped through the toxic air of the Divide. Two of them found their mark, with one landing on his shoulder, and another by his right holster. For all the armor he wore though, the bullets would have a hard time even scratching the two hundred year-old army paint.

For that matter they would also need much more force to even knock him back. He squeezed off a round just above the flash, and saw the ghoul behind the trigger in legion armor glow as if he was already beggining his journey to hell.

More shots were fired from the platform where Ulysses was hitting ED-E, who was still hovering above the console taking potshots. Groping blindly at his belt, David found and unhooked another frag grenade. He pulled the pin, and tossed it at the platform to stop the zealot.

The firing stopped, and Ulysses no doubt left his spot for cover, as did he. It was then, that David heard more noise coming in from the elevator. More of them were coming.

David put down the Holorifle and drew the detonator from his pack. He spied the outline of an unattached warhead within spitting distance of the elevator, and squeezed the trigger. A thin red light shot across the chamber, and concentrated on the warhead. The dull blast bellowed destruction, tearing apart the marked men in its wake who would have considered it a healing factor not two second ago.

The blast died down, and the shooting ceased. The smoke from the blast obscured the temple behind ED-E. He picked up his rifle, and looked for hostiles. The marked men weren't done yet, he was certain of that. And neither was Ulysses...

A quiet beep from the Stealth-boy told him that its battery was running out. David scrambled to his feet, while trying not to attract Ulysses.

A louder beep was heard, this time from his pip boy. He jumped back two steps, out of fear that the noise had given him away. A few moments passed, before he worked up the courage to turn on the HUD. To David's satisfaction, ED-E was downloading the kill codes, now that House's Mainframe had found them. A moment later, he could see ED-E go from bombarding the machine with small precise blasts, with the codebreaker, to arcing electrical energy with the console receiver.

And then, the low guttural voice of Ulysses made itself known. "Big Mountain access code... Ulysses." The words came from the edge of the walkway.

David was already running towards the noise, he didn't dare waste time shooting at what could just be air, so he closed the gap. He raised his weapon as if it were a rebar club.

At his foot, he heard a rapid set of beeps that could only come from a frag mine.

 _Fuck, a mine,_ David realized with horror as he saw a flicker of movement, shifting form to face him. The figure shrunk back few a steps...

 **Boom!**

He heard the deafening thud of the mine behind him, just as its hot shrapnel bit him behind his knee. Still David kept going pressing his momentum, against Ulysses.

The big tribal may have given way as he brought the butt of his gun down onto what had to have been his chest, but it barely seemed to phase him.

Instead, a pair of strong arms grabbed him, one snagging his belt, and the other his gripping an arm. What momentum he still had was used against him as Ulysses brought him around his own shrouded figure.

David landed on his knees, and fell forward landing with his head peering over the edge of the walkway.

"Big Mountain access code Ulysses. Command Override... Navarro" Ulysses spoke quickly from where he stood.

The words brought him new panic. _What if the override actually worked?_

It all happened at once, explosions erupted throughout the chamber, intertwined with the sound of twisting metal.

David turned his head in time to face the missile shining at the end of the chamber like a great phallic idol of death, topple from the launchpad without getting a chance to launch. All around him. the missiles on the walls began to shake and one by one, they exploded.

The master plan was foiled, no missile would ever escape the silo after this. A cry of joy escaped his lips, and he silently praised the lord for bringing him this far.

A moment later, his joy turned back to horror, as it became obvious that the destruction of the missiles would bring down the roof over his head.

The vibrations on his pip brought him back to his senses. David propped himself up on his right arm to see what was happening. ED-E's CLI was suddenly awash with new commands he didn't recognize.

A crackle of blue electricity revealed Ulysses, followed by one around himself that meant the stealth boy was out of charge.

And then, for some reason, he jumped. He did not come down, when he should have though. He just stayed there hovering above the walkway. That was when David realized that he was being lifted too by an unseen force.

His eyes grew heavy while the temple collapsed around him. The last thing he felt was paralysis.

* * *

Author's Note: If anyone is up to the task, I could really use a beta reader.


	2. The Darkwater

**Author's Note: Had to change the rating to M to accomodate the good stuff; sex, drugs, graphic violence, and rock n' roll**

 **36 hours earlier**

* * *

The small virtual community that was the sink greeted him as he made his way to the Think Tank.

David was not in the mood to return their virtual gestures, and marched to the top of the dome with a heavy heart.

He had been duped. It had all started as a transmission from Primm, which sent him on a search across the Divide for answers. Ever since he took a pair of nines to the head, David had always been tormented when it came to the game for the Mojave that he had been roped into like a stray Brahmin, on a drive to the nearest NCR rail head.

His days were back then, as Doc Mitchell in Goodsprings put it, numbered. The cancer was supposed to take him sometime in the next year. With death on the horizon, David had been hell bent on settling his affairs. He returned the platinum chip that had been stolen from him, by Benny. From there, he took job after job for House, with little regard for his own life. That changed when he began to truly understand the character of the Lucky 38's resident ghost.

In a moment of rashness, he ran away with a caravan to Utah, in hopes of making peace with his family in New Canaan. Those plans died with the condolences of Joshua Graham.

In fury, he cleansed the canyon of those barbarians, killing their chief in the process.

With the defeat of the White Legs, he turned his attention to back to the Mojave. He would do right by those who had blessed him when he had no one else to turn to. Even Mr. House.

The great questions of the decade would be answered in that blood soaked desert that had somehow become his new home. A home he didn't appreciate, until he walked back through the doors of the Lucky 38 to be greeted by people who actually cared about him. House welcomed him back almost as if nothing had happened, if only because his shoes were too big to fill.

He had heard tales of a wandering renegade named Ulysses for some time. Ever since Graham told him about the story of Ulysses and his tribe, David had been gathering all he could on the elusive Frumentarii. Not four years ago, the White Legs were a nomadic tribe that had spent decades being chased away by so many rival tribes all from over Wyoming and the northern half of the old Four-States Commonwealth. That was of course, before they came into contact with the Legion.

A few months before Caesar threw the Legion across Hoover Dam, he sent a handful of centurions to lead an expedition against Ouroboros. Ouroboros was a city of sorts in Eastern Utah that was the spiritual capital of the Vipers, and more recently, the Hounds of Hecate. Sallow had heard tales of a mad tribal goddess known as Hecate, who held sway over that stronghold.

Hecate was born to the twisted hairs, the same tribe as Ulysses. When Caesar rewarded the Legion's greatest ally in Arizona with a mass crucifixion along I-40, Hecate disappeared north of the Colorado, and emerged from the wilderness as a warrior-goddess leading a small army almost as fanatical as the Legion forged from several weakened tribes including the Vipers of Utah.

The battle between Her followers and the Legion was quick and decisive. The Legion explorers were too arrogant to expect much from a matriarchal society and woefully underestimated her. Only by chance did the survivors come into contact with the White Legs, who were fighting a losing war against Hecate.

They were too weak to fight an enemy who did not hold to the traditional tribal mindset, and both too lazy and too stupid to become self-sufficient. Caesar forged an alliance with them just as he had done with so many other former tribes.

After Hoover Dam, Ulysses was sent build up the White Legs. Not just against New Canaan, but also against to make war upon a people led by his only surviving kin. Four years later, the White Legs destroyed New Canaan, and were now capable of fighting a serious war against Hecate.

As the last few months passed, the trail of whispers and rumors, soon took on the form of spray painted old world flags.

"There you are Mr. Kelly," the cold voice of Robert Edwin House snapped over the speakers behind him.

He snapped out of his thoughts, and turned to face the image of a smarmy House on the big screen that dominated the wall above the main lab entrance.

"Here I am." David was not in the mood to be baited by House right now.

"I see you're back from another attempt to find yourself. I'd hoped that you wouldn't act as rashly, after they cured you here." The exasperated voice carried across the lab.

He removed his helmet, and made sure that House could see his face, it would be best if they got to the problem at hand ASAP. "So, how much do you know about the missiles in the Divide?"

It was as if the room temperature suddenly dropped 15 degrees. For a moment unbearable silence hung in the air, before House finally broke it.

"It was you wasn't it, the detonation over Ashton?" House inquired, this time with no small amount of concern in his voice.

This was not how David hoped to start the conversation. "Sort of," He couldn't bring himself to tell the complete story. "There was a missile, one...one of the few left in the silo. It was, rigged to launch when I opened the door."

"What do you mean rigged to launch?" The voice of House snapped once he smelled the blood.

"Ulysses," He growled.

"Ulysses?" House knew little about the circumstances in which David entered the Divide.

"There's an ex-Frumentarii in the Divide who goes by the name of Ulysses, and he wants me to have a front seat to watch him launch every missile in the Divide at the Mojave."

"And what would he stand to gain by nuking the Mojave?"

"Because he's a zealot, and because he wants to get back at me."

"So you went to the Divide by yourself then?" House clearly knew that there was more to the story.

David almost asked Yes-Man to pull up the transmission that Ulysses had sent him not four days ago. He only stopped himself when he remembered that it would reveal too much of his hand, and manually searched for the file.

Even now with a madman on the verge of baptizing New Vegas in nuclear hellfire, House would be furious to learn that he had saved a backup of the AI that Benny, that lazy bastard, had commissioned to auto-pilot the strip. It meant that it would be possible to unlock the many secrets of Robert Edwin House, should anything happen to him.

He found the file, and played over the speakers of his pip-boy.

" _Why didn't I take the job? You Courier, you were the reason. See the Divide. See what happened, what was done. Your world stripped bare. All its shadows. Got a message for you. Come find me, you know the way. Bring all your weapons, bring your convictions, your flag of the bull, two-headed bear. Or whatever flag you're carrying now. And at the Divide, you and I, we'll have an ending to things. This is your road, when you come you'll walk it alone."_

"Why did you even listen to him?" House spoke as if David were a mere child.

David took a deep breath. "Because what happened at the Divide, happened because of me."

"Because of you? You're telling me that whatever happened four years ago, was because of you?" House's voice actually seemed capable of shaking when he asked about Hopeville.

He cleared his throat, "Five years ago, I uh... Discovered the Divide. It was home to a small community of survivalists."

It pained him greatly to speak of it. In only a few months after he left Junktown with his first Pack Brahmin, he had unwittingly turned the greatest fears of the Divide's residents into reality one by one.

"They wanted to be uh, left alone. Didn't lessen their need for trade with the World beyond the valley though." He started his own little caravan and brought supplies to the isolated community. For the first time since he left Colorado, he actually had something that resembled a home.

"I saw a path, where others saw nothing, and brought life to Hopeville and Ashton. It was still a road to hell, and I was the one who paved it." A single tear fell across his cheeks as he recalled the story.

"And from there the NCR found a supply line to the Mojave," House connected the dots, much to David's silent relief.

He nodded, "Wasn't just the supply line of course, they wanted the nukes just as bad. They wanted me to lead an OSI expedition from out of Navarro. That expedition included an eyebot, that remote linked to the missile network as soon as it as in range."

"So that earthquake happened, when the missiles detonated from within the silos?"

"That's right," He confirmed dryly. "And the storms too. Not many people survived that day.

"To this day I still live with the guilt of bringing hell on Earth, to the Divide. I went alone, because it is my burden to bear. Not the Legion, not the NCR, not the Enclave remnants and thier children who gave the NCR an excuse to invade. I condemned Ashton, the day I started supplying them."

"And what's keeping Ulysses from launching the missiles now?" House returned to the subject.

"I'm really not sure. I'm no expert on ballistic missiles, but if Ashton is any indication, we should be seeing the sky light up any minute now."

David wondered how long it would be, until Ulysses broke the encryption on the launch controls.

"Most of the silos are within range of my defense systems. The chances of a missile being able to leave the Divide airspace without being disabled is roughly 23.6 percent, and that's assuming that the missiles are capable of a stable flight."

While House had brought up a good point, it didn't change the fact that he was clinging to numbers for reassurance that someone wasn't going to trigger another apocalypse.

Suddenly, a thought flickered. Considering the ridiculous amount of effort Ulysses put into trying to make sure the Divide killed him, there was no reason that Ulysses could have figured out how to launch his missiles all by his lonesome.

He had walked the depth and breadth of the Divide, laying minefields, setting traps, and painting markers. He needed an eyebot to break the security encryption. Ulysses had plenty of chances to take the bot, and break the codes.

The answer was staring him in the face.

Everything Ulysses had done, went back to what could only be described as obsession. The man was intent on making him suffer as long as possible.

"I think he's just waiting for me." David voiced his thoughts aloud.

When House said nothing he continued, "Everything he's done comes back to me. Part of me thinks that its simply a show to him, that the actors on his stage will simply show up for the final act."

"And are you going to do that?" House pressed the question though the answer was obvious.

"Sure do. Soon as I resupply here, I'm going kick down the doors to his hideout."

"In that case, you can help me stop it before it starts." Another plan was coming together.

"What's the plan?"

House told him about a piece of aerospace tech called a deep range transmitter, that would allow him to remotely control any machine fixed to the piece. It had been modified to fit an Eyebot, as well as receive Robco proprietary signals, and only could be made with the help of the Central intelligence Unit now that the schematics were uploaded.

The screen went silent, and David walked back down to the Sink.

On his to do list, he a transmitter to make, armor to fix, guns to mod, and ammo to craft.

* * *

Something was wrong.

That's what David kept telling himself, as he realized what his senses were picking up.

The first thing he remembered was the unmistakable sound of a waterfall. That was strange. As far as he knew, there was no rivers in the Divide _._

That was enough for him to open his heavy eyes. His sight was blurry, which may have had something to do with the massive pounding in his head.

When his vision focused somewhat, he saw that it he was sheltered by some structure of eroding cement.

He lifted his left arm, for the sake of checking his Pip-boy. He had barely moved it, when he realized that he was somehow soaked.

His breathed through his nose, which was immediately assaulted with the familiar smell of heavy sweat and piss.

"Oh hey there." The cartoonish voice of Yes-Man, projected from the computer on his arm.

"Yes Man?" David asked groggily.

"In the flesh, well sort of," the obnoxiously cheerful voice of the AI replied.

"So what happened and how the hell am I still alive?"

"I don't know either. I went offline about the time your vitals went haywire."

"So how long was I out, "asked David.

"I don't know, yet. I'll need to sync with a time server to know that." Yes-Man's cheerful tone dimmed somewhat at the statement. "I know that I've been out long enough for most of your injuries to heal, though."

He thought about his bitter fight with Ulysses. "So how many broken bones do I still have?"

"Nothing too serious now," came Yes-Man's diagnosis. "You should probably get that shrapnel in your legs taken care of though."

Instinctively David moved his legs. Pain shot through his body, and he grunted in agony.

"F-fuck! that hurts," he remembered the thud of a well placed mine exploding behind him and sending hot shrapnel through the split in his armored duster and into his legs.

"You should probably rinse those wounds in the river by your feet. If it's anything like the mist in the air, then it's completely radiation free."

David stared dumbly at his pip-boy. Nothing was rad free in the Divide. He took a long look at the free flowing river that was almost in reach. His eyes wandered towards the structure that sheltered him, and noted this time that it was not concrete, but actual stone. In fact, it wasn't even a decrepit building, but a bridge that he was underneath.

He didn't know where he was, but right now that wasn't important. David slowly lifted his riot helmet, breathed in the air. He exhaled and breathed it in, even deeper this time. The cold night air felt good, tasted good. It was like he was in the mountains by Jacobstown.

After his journey through the Divide, good air almost felt like a forgotten luxury.

Despite the pain in his legs, he inched down the riverbank, and into the water, shedding his heavy armor along the way.

Once he was down to his undergarments, he reached into his pack. He found the doctor's bag, and a bottle of Vodka. David started the operation with a swig of the Vodka.

The burn from the alcohol moved down his throat and then spread to his veins, briefly jarring some of the mist from his brain. The Vodka reminded him just how dry his throat was, and wondered if it was due to a loss of blood. Some more of the hooch was used to sterilize his wound. It stung like a bitch, but it did not deter him from ripping out shard after bloody shard from his wounds that had not yet fully healed.

When it was over, he rested his feet in the water. Yes-Man had been right about the water, the computer had not clicked once since he woke up. From his pack, he produced his trusty Vault 13 canteen, and filled it with the sweet untainted water.

When it came down to it, the canteen was one of his most prized possessions. It had been given to him many years ago by his dad, who came across in his travels in California (travels he chose not to talk about). It was a curious thing, a simple thing that had saved his life more times than he bothered to remember. It had also nearly cost him his life on a few occasions.

The canteen pressed against his lips, and he drank the cold, clear water that poured from it's top.

In such a pristine environment, he suddenly remembered just how filthy he was. David returned everything he had taken from his pack, which he concealed in a crevice below the bridge. The biometric seals on his Pip-boy were released, which he used to clamp the bag shut over the top as a crude lock. All he had on him now was a bowie knife he had taken from the Hopeville Silo, and a bar of homemade soap.

Upstream, he waded and settled in the middle of the stream. The current of the cold water was reasonably strong, but not bad enough that he worried about the waterfall behind him.

For a man who had been under the gun for months on end, the passage of time was suddenly irrelevant as he rubbed the homemade soap, all over his skin. The stream's current was strong enough, to take away the dirt and grime as it came loose from contact with the oils. Feeling at ease in the stream bed, he sheathed the knife, and clipped it to his boxers.

As he bathed, he found his eyes staring up at the stars in the night sky. He couldn't for the life of him place what it was, but something was not right. He already had the feeling that somehow he'd ended up in the far North. Before he could contemplate further, something cold and metallic pressed against his shoulder.

"Take off your clothes," a male voice demanded from behind him with some bizarre accent David had never heard of before.

"Uh, shouldn't you be buying me dinner first or something?" David quipped. Though he managed to keep his voice level, he was cursing himself inwardly for letting his guard down again.

The man chuckled without mirth. "You're a funny one," replied the melancholic voice. The knife made its way down his back before resting below the ribcage.

"Okay, okay. Wouldn't want to go through the trouble of washing off all those white stains." He slipped his thumbs under his briefs. After wiggling his boxers he carefully slipped them off his feet loose, while taking care to unsheathe the knife that was still hidden beneath the water's surface.

Slowly he found his feet, and then in one fluid motion, he turned, and tossed his underwear at the face of the creep. It landed square over his eyes, blinding him long enough for David to bring the Bowie knife to bear.

David lunged at his assailant. With one hand grabbed at the wrist that wielded the knife, the other simply came to rest on the man's throat.

"I believe it's your turn to drop the soap, raider." David growled.

"Soap?" the man calmly lifted the still soiled undergarment from his face, to reveal a confused expression. His reaction spoke volumes about his location. Wherever he was, the only people around were probably isolated tribals.

David got a look at the man's face. His head was dominated by a full head of dark hair that threatened to touch his shoulders. Beneath the hair, was a pair of gray eyes that had about the same hue as San Francisco fog. They stared back at him, as if to say " _Who are you."_ Under his short round nose, a thin set of lips formed the beginnings of a smile.

His outfit, looked almost like it had been cut out of an ancient burlap sack. Small wonder the tribal wanted his clothes.

David had figured this man wrong. He wasn't out to assert his primal dominance at the point of his dong, like some of the of tribesman in the less civilzed parts of Montana were known for. Many tribals, particularly the Twangers of Flathead Lake, who were said to perform horrifying and perverse rituals on those who were unfortunate enough to not heed the sound of their war banjos.

The man simply wanted an outfit that came from a culture greater than his own.

"That's civilized speak for drop the knife, and make yourself vulnerable." David wanted to see the his reaction. The look that came from his calculating eyes did not disappoint.

His hand opened, and the knife made a splash upon hitting the surface of the stream. "Gods, you Bretons are arrogant."

David didn't understand what the strange tribal meant by the word " _Breton._ " He assumed it was a word for " _people different than us._ " In the strange language that travelers refer to as Res, it was " _Owslander,_ " in the world of the Legion, it was "Profligate."

Suddenly, he felt a painful shocking sensation course through his body. The shock forced him to step back and release his grip on the man.

When he recovered his senses, his right arm was sore, and the man in front of him had something in the palm of his hands. It was something, that he could not for the life of him place, but for some reason made him think of a Gauss Rifle building its charge.

He had his answer a moment later, the pale blue swirl of energy left the man's hands, and materialized into a spike of some sorts.

He tried to dive out of the way, but the circumstances made it next to impossible for him to move fast enough. The spike pierced his exposed right leg just above the knee, and its impact knocked him into the stream, and on his ass.

David shivered involuntarily, and realized that the spike embedded in his Femur was pure ice. Thinking quickly, he hacked off most of the protruding section with his knife.

He looked to the bridge behind him. He was close enough to the waterfall that the current was gathering strength. If he could just reach his gear, he would riddle this thing with first gun he got his hands on.

The thing, whether it was a man that got actual superpowers thanks to some natural Hubologist style rad therapy, or it was some bizarre cyborg like himself, calmly waded down the stream closing the distance.

"Not the mage type I suppose," he gloated.

"The hell is a mage?" David roared back.

The Mage looked at him, as if he was unable to grasp a concept as basic as eating or sleeping. "Let's just say, that some time in the civilized world would do you good," sneered the mage.

He began to step away from the middle of the stream, towards the riverbank. This move was not lost on David, who found his footing and started in his direction. Halfway out, the mage put his hands together, and from them came sparks of electricity that emitted from his hands as if they were a Tesla coil.

"Stop right there," he threatened. "Take off your small clothes, and toss them to the bank before I end up killing everything in the Darkwater."

Before he could react, the rapid beating of hooves nearby seized their attention.

Taking advantage of the distraction, he made it out of the stream that the mage called the Darkwater in three steps.

The hands moved to face and then zap him, but not before David acquainted him with his left fist, which was already clenched with his boxers. The man fell on his back, on landed just beyond the edge of the water. David pressed the offensive, and landed his wounded knee on the fallen mage's chest.

"Go on, let's see who can take the shock."

Instead of unleashing a charge on him as he was half hoping his would be mugger would be stupid enough to try, the hand shot out, and grabbed his exposed member.

Before he could wonder what the fuck was happening, he heard himself scream in pain, as fire erupted from the hand of the stranger, and made contact with his special place.

In rage, he brought his nine inch knife down on the offending arm, cleaving straight through the bone and most likely rendering it useless. The hand went limp, and he leaped over the bastard, and into the stream to cool off the burn, which he knew would sting worse than even concentrated Nightstalker venom.

He slipped his boxers over his arm, and rushed over to that dirty son of a bitch. With some grim satisfaction, he watched the man's active hand trying to pull the knife out of his not so active arm.

"ASSHOLE, MOTHERFUCKER!" David screamed at the man. "Of all the could hit me, you choose one that isn't jacked up on implants!" He gave a wicked backhand with his right, across his face. Hopefully though, he wouldn't need any special medical attention for this. It would be embarrassing, as hell asking for the help of Arcade, and Usanagi, or even worse the Think Thank.

David planted his foot on the free arm, and with both hands he yanked the almost machete out of the arm.

Not pausing to see what gruesome damage the knife left behind, David grabbed him by a leg, and dragged him into the current.

When he neared the fall's edge underneath the stone bridge, he let go of the body letting the water carry him. Nothing could keep the wounded man from falling over the edge. Or him for that matter...

The arms, both the good one, and the bloodied to his surprise flailed wildly. They hooked around an ankle, and he lost his footing. David fell headlong into the falls, and landed shoulder first on a rock jutting out of the falling curtain of water.

Next thing he knew, he was floating in the wider river, with a much gentler current. Except, it was more than just the current carrying him.

He realized that his arms were being held around the form of a feminine stranger.

 _'Damn, must have lost consciousness in fall,'_ David decided.

They neared the shore, where he could see a handful of crudely built pup tents. Behind them was some sort of hut.

His attention shifted to a voice from the shore.

"You have committed crimes against Skyrim and her people, what say you in your defense?"

In the dark early morning light, he made out a figure held by two armed men, and questioned by another. The light of a campfire nearby gave the captors the look of Bitterroot Mountain hunters.

"I'm not the thief you're looking for." He snickered when he recognized the voice.

"Nice try trickster, but you're not fooling me. I heard about you and your honeyed words," replied the voice, that made him think of some old-timey holofilm action hero. "I also happen to know that Riften Hold has an even greater bounty on your head," continued the voice.

The woman carrying him started to emerge from the water, and soon David could feel his feet drag along the riverbed. Once her waistline emerged from the water, she turned to look at him.

For his part, he got to his feet and stood.

By the light of the fire, he could see that she was a beautiful woman who he guessed to be in her mid thirties, with strawberry blond hair that seemed only a few shades lighter than his own light red hair.

"Are you alright," she asked in a voice sweet and tender.

David nodded, "Thanks, I must have blacked out."

"It looked painful," she replied.

"I've had worse," David shrugged it off while cradling his shoulder with his hand. "The name is David by the way, David Kelly."

She just smiled at him, "I'm Annekke, Annekke Crag-Jumper." There was an awkward pause for a second or two before she spoke again. "Are you okay?"

He suddenly realized that he was staring at her midsection. Her clothes though simple were well made, but it was the skin that it covered which held his attention. The outfit was thoroughly soaked and clung to her body in a way that left very little to the imagination.

He jerked his head away with some embarrassment hoping that the fire light did not give away the look on his face.

"And I'm Verner Rock-Chucker, her husband." A new voice spoke up and he noticed a thirty something man with a dirty blond beard, and a coat of patched leather. "Should that thing be on your arm?"

David looked at his arms, and saw to his horror that his Boxers were still on this right arm. Looking down, he saw his fun stick partially visible, and even now he could tell that there was a fair amount of circulation down there, although he wasn't sure if that was because of sex drive, or because of the fact that it was on fire for a second. _'Probably both,'_ David assumed, as he moved his hands to cover himself.

Before he could do anything more, the leader of the small group pointed at him, "You there."

"Me?"

"Yes you," the deep voice that dripped with authority. "I suppose we have you to thank for the capture of Flokir of Riften. He has a bounty in this hold of eight hundred Septims. Come with me in Windhelm, and I will see to it that that my steward rewards you handsomely."

 _'Riften, Windhelm, Skyrim. Where the hell was he'_ David could hear his mind screaming at the names of strange places he had never heard of. There was also the fact that his showdown with the strange thief, had earned him money that happened to be something other than bottle caps.

Obviously, he wasn't dealing with mere tribals despite their appearance to the contrary.

That was when the name for their currency clicked. Whatever it was, it sounded an awful lot like Legion money.

A horn blew. _A war horn,_ David realized. From every direction, the outline of armed men seemed to come out from behind every tree and bush. He could not make out any details about them, except for the obvious discipline they displayed in surrounding the party.

"Stand down," came the deep voice of the leader.

"But my Jarl..." asked one of his braves.

"I said stand down," interrupted the chief. "We don't need to die for this."

"Secure their weapons," bellowed a voice from a ways off.

"Yes Legate," came the reply of a junior officer type.

 _'Shit!'_ He realized. Wherever he was, it was Caesar's territory now.

 **Author's note: I would like to thank Mandalore the Freedom for beta reading this chapter.**


	3. I'll fly away

Hey, hey you." a voice called out. "You're awake, guards sure worked you over."

He heard a voice, a voice that belonged to a man sitting across from him with shoulder length blonde hair, and looked to be in his late twenties. "I told those Imperial Soldiers that you weren't with us, but they grabbed you like that thief." He indicated the thief who sat on the edge of the wagon.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," retorted the thief who had tried to robbed him. "Skyrim was fine until you came along, the Empire was nice and lazy until you came along. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have been halfway to Hammerfell by now."

David Kelly listened to the conversation in silence trying to digest what he was hearing. ' _Skyrim, Empire,_ _Hammerfell?'_ The names meant nothing to him. He still wondered if he was somewhere in Montana, the eastern half maybe if their accents were any indication. With the braid the man across from him wore, he looked like a few of the fair-haired Montana tribesmen he knew from the lands outside Regis.

The voice of the thief snapped him out of his thoughts. "And damn you for getting us caught!" He glared at David.

"I remember that you were the wanted man." David snapped back the thief.

"You stand with us, or you stand against us, we're all brothers and sisters in binds now thief." The blond soldier in leathers spoke.

"Shut up back there!" a raspy voice spoke up to his left. The man was driving a wagon of some sort. At first glance, his attire marked him as one of Caesar's Legion, a second look at the man's back, and he realized something was off.

His armor actually looked like real military grade armor, and not the spoils of some sporting goods shop that had an overstock of Arizona Cardinals jerseys. The next thing he noticed, was the back of his shoulders. There were no marks on the armor to indicate the mark of the Legion. That and the fact that none of the soldiers referred to him as a profligate yet.

When they arrived, he attempted to flee the scene, knowing what the Legion would do if he was taken alive. He didn't count on the scouts who were hiding on the other side of the river, who were waiting for someone audacious enough to swim to freedom.

Against the squad of Legionaries, he was easily outmatched. Half-naked and armed with only a nine inch bowie knife, David had killed two of their number, before they could get close in. A few well placed hits on the upper body had rendered him unconscious. Now he was on a wagon bound and thankfully clothed, but still bound at the wrists. Now, he had nothing but the clothes on his back.

He found himself taking a second look, and realized that the wagon was drawn by a horse. ' _A horse?'_ it had several years, since he had seen a horse, much less ridden one. Now he was really confused. First, he thought he was somewhere around Montana, or in Idaho country, but then the Legion showed up.

Now he couldn't help but wonder if he was in Colorado. They already occupied at least half of it, and was the last place he'd seen enough horses to outfit a small army. Then again, if the air was any indication, maybe he was somewhere up Canada way, or even the Dakotas if the Black Hills were anything to talk about. The vegetation also happened to be thick as his surroundings in many places.

"What's his problem, why did they gag him?" The thief gestured to the man who sat next to him. David immediately recognized the man by his strange furs. To him, they were strange, because he could not place exactly, what animal the furs came from.

"Watch your tongue," came the disdainful voice of the blond. "That's Ulfric Stormcloak you're speaking of, the true high king."

The Thief's eyes widen from shock. "Wait, that's the man who used the voice to murder High King Torygg." David realized that he was looking at the thief's arm. His eyes widened. Last time he was conscious, he put his knife straight through that arm. Looking at it now, nobody would believe that a nine inch knife almost held him to the ground like a tent peg.

David suddenly thought of the chunk of ice that had struck his leg. The mere thought of it made his leg feel cold. Though it still stung when he tried to move, the wound had mostly healed.

"The Jarl of Windhelm, and the leader of the rebellion?" The thief let out a deep breath, "If they captured you..." He broke down with the realization of something David had yet to understand. "Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

"I don't know where we're going," the blond answered. "At least Sovngarde will be waiting for us. Our ancestors. Feasting. Mead."

"I could really use some mead about now." The thief muttered under his breath.

"Where do you call home, thief?" That blond asked the man.

"Why do you care?" the dark haired thief retorted.

"Because, a Nord's last thoughts should be of home." The Blond explained in a stoic, matter of fact tone.

The Thief was quiet for few moments before speaking. "Riften, no matter what, it's my home," came his reply.

David's head poked at the mention of Nords. Not long after he fled to the relative safety of Yellowstone, he remembered swapping tales at campfire with a drifter who came from the desolate ruins of Minot in the Dakotas, a place now settled by a tribe known as the Nords.

His eyes were not focused on the conversation though. He was far more interesting in the settlement that came into view.

It was fortified with a wall that had been constructed out of stone without the benefit of heavy machinery, and braced with roughly hewn logs.

"General Tulius, the headsman is waiting," a voice rang out as they neared the gate.

The words stumped him. It wasn't just because their plans were being spelled out for him, but also because it felt so much like Caesar's Legion and yet it felt so different like everything else around him.

"Shor, Mara, Kynereth, Dibella, Ackatosh. Divines please help me." The voice of the thief carried in the classic prayer of a condemned man to gods David knew nothing about. For his part, he felt strangely calm about the whole ordeal. Then again, this wasn't the first time, he'd been driven to his execution.

The wagon carried them through the gate, and he saw a town within composed of timber buildings, thatched with grass hay. The wagon train up ahead, followed a road that along the left.

When it came time for their wagon to follow the rest, he got a good view of several figures on horseback.

One of them who was clad in a rather ornate piece of armor screaming his rank for all to see, had his back turned to the procession.

"Look at him, General Tullius the military governor, sitting that horse like a preening rooster." The soldier spat at the utterance of the general's name. "And it looks like the Thalmor are with him to. Damn Elves."

 _'Elves.'_ That was interesting. He had no clue what to make of that. The wagon creaked on in silence.

"Helgen," the blond soldier spoke to himself. "Used to be sweet on a girl from here once. Wonder if Vilod still makes that mead with the juniper berries."

The soldier looked around as he continued his monologue. "Funny," he shook his head in sadness. "When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

Behind him, David could see a parade ground of sorts come into view.

"Who are they daddy," called a young boy behind him. "Where are they going?"

"You need to go inside, little cub." An older voice belonging to an older man he could not see countered the boy. For an instant, the words chilled him to the bone.

"Why? I want to watch the soldiers," rebutted the kid.

"Inside the house, now!" The adult was having none of it.

"Yes papa," came the boy's tired reply.

A hard female voice yanked him back to the situation at hand. "Get these prisoners out of the carts, move it!"

David brushed his hand against the wagon, and noticed that a spike in the wood was loose. With a light amount of effort, he ripped the spike out, and hid it behind his arms.

"Let's go," the Blond gestured to the thief beside him. "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

David absently wondered as to what faith the others held to, as the four of them took turns disembarking. So many strange religions, sprang up after the bombs fell. In the four states, there was the worship of Mars. In Utah, some isolated communities cultivated sects of Mormonism that would have been unrecognizable by the pre-war Mormon authorities, to say nothing about Christianity in general.

"I'm not a rebel," came the voice of the thief. "You've got to tell them, this is a mistake."

"Shut up, out of the cart now!" he heard the woman's voice again. This time, he was able to get a good look at the officer. If he was confused earlier, then now he was completely lost.

The armor looked very much like that of a centurion, but it didn't look like a loose collection of welded together scrap metal. It was a purpose built suit of armor. That paled however, to the fact that the bearer was a woman. She was tall with a swarthy complexion, and a sour look on her face.

"Step towards the block, when we call your name, one at a time," her voice grated. Despite everything, there was something amusing about the manner of it all. As the began to unfold, he went to work on his bonds with the spike.

"The Empire, and their gods damned lists," muttered the blond beneath his breath.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm,"the voice came from a stocky man with a hooked nose, who was maybe a few years older than him. In one hand he gripped a large clipboard that was cradled in his arm. In the other hand, he wielded some comically oversized feather as though it were a pen. "Guilty of treason and regicide, sentenced to death."

Without any more prompt, Ulfric Stormcloak simply walked away.

"It has been an honor Jarl Ulfric," spoke one of his men with clear reverence.

"Next in line," barked the bitch in centurion armor.

The blond stepped up to face them. "Ralof, of Riverwood. Proud son of Skyrim." The soldier, didn't even wait for the calling of his name.

"Stormcloak, guilty of treason, sentenced to death." The clerk spoke wearily this time with a tone of pity.

He gestured to the thief in front of him. "Name," called the clerk.

"Lokir of Ivarstead, and I'm not a Stormcloak!"

"It says here that you are, sorry." The man holding the list addressed Lokir, Flokir or whatever the hell his actual name was, with an air of indifference.

"You're condemning the wrong man to death, and it doesn't even bother you," the thief snarled at the man with the quill.

"I'll save my sympathy for the deserving, gutter rat." The clerk gruffly replied. Lokir glared at the clerk.

The man wasted no time in making a run down the road.

The officer screamed for him to halt, but the call fell on deaf ears. She then called for archers, who stood at the ready. ' _People with bows and arrows,'_ He noticed. They unleashed a few arrows, one of which hit the thief.

In a way, he wondered if the damage would last. Whatever the fellow was, he had a healing factor that honestly made him jealous. Thousands of caps worth of cybernetic implants and some grossly amoral medical experiments in the Big MT were still not as quick a healing broken bones as his must have been.

"Does anyone else feel like running?" The Imperial asked.

The clerk though then turned his attention to David. "Wait you there, step forward." David stepped forward, and made sure that the skirted clerk got a good view of his face.

"You there. Who are you?"

David thought of all the times he had spent in Legion territory, before the battle for Hoover Dam. All the shit that he had pulled from Mesa Verde to Fortification Hill. Even then, he was somewhere at the top of the Fox's hit list.

"The name's Dickus, Biggus Dickus." He smugly replied.

"Is that some sort of joke," growled the woman.

David shrugged mockingly, "Mister and misses Dickus must have thought so. I guess they wanted their boy to have the baddest legion name possible."

"I'm going to see to it that the headsman takes your head and your dickus!" the swarthy bitch shrieked the words out.

"What's all this about!" a well tanned man in general's finery with hair that marked him as a fifty something, stepped into the scene he had created.

The clerk spoke first. "He gave his name," he pointed to David, "as Biggus Dickus." With no small amount of self control, the clerk with the hooked nose did his best not to laugh as he filled in his commander.

It was not good enough, a muffled sound escaped his lips and the general was on him in a moment.

"What's so funny about Biggus Dickus. I have a great friend in the Imperial City named Biggus Dickus."

The sound of laughter came from the condemned ranks of the Stormcloaks.

"Silence, traitors!" His voice was like a frayed brahmin whip.

"See lady, its a popular name," David chimed in.

The commanding officer turned his head, and looked at him with scorn. "There is only one house in Tamriel with the right to the name of Dickus, and you are not part of it. Even if you were, you sure as Oblivion don't look like Biggus."

"Looks can be deceiving, muscles suit." Another round of laughter rang out and filled the parade ground with reactions ranging from the nervous snickering of a few crimson man skirts, to the booming laughs that came from the Stormcloak braves.

"Hadvar, add impersonation of nobility to his charges."

"Yes General," the man put down his quill, and snapped a salute. The motions were familiar, but in another break from what he expected, he did not hear the man say "Ave." As crazy as it sounded, he was really starting to wonder if they were simply a group of wannabee legionaries. He pushed the thought away immediately, remembering that Caesar would would stop at nothing to integrate such a tribe unlike the White Legs.

The General turned on his heels, and the clerk named Hadvar returned his attention to him. "Wait until Biggus Dickus hears about this," muttered Tullius under his breath.

"I'm guessing that you're from Daggerfall, Breton. Fleeing from some court intrigue? I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to High Rock." There was that word again. He wondered if High Rock was local speak for the Rockies, just as he wondered where Daggerfall was supposed to be.

"Let's go with that," he shrugged.

He thought of burial, in the case that it actually came to that. What would his tombstone say about him, if by chance he was buried in a marked grave with whatever name he was using last. He thought about the name he'd used in heading west through the hellish landscape of the Grand Canyon with the Legion's quickest hot on his tail.

Wasn't a bad note for him to end on all things considered, ' _Here lies Biggus Dickus.'_ It had a nice ring to it.

"You'll put Biggus Dickus on my headstone right?" The threat of death so far did little to phase him, but then again he'd suffered to many close calls in the past year not to laugh at death.

Hadvar pursed his lips, trying not to show any emotion. "No promises."

With some detachment in his voice he read out the charges. "Stormcloak, guilty of murder, treason and impersonation of nobility, sentenced to death." David couldn't help but notice a hint of disbelief in the clerk's voice. "Follow the captain, prisoner," Hadvar did not dare say the name out loud.

The captain walked past the unorganized mass of Stormcloaks and Legion troopers. His eyes followed her until they settled on the general. _'For an army of wannabee Romans, they don't seem to understand much less care about the ranks of Caesar's Legion,' h_ e thought about about his captors and not for the first time.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his King and usurp his throne." The old man in the ornate armor railed against the gagged chieftain, who supposedly could kill people with little more than his mouth. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace."

No sooner than the general finished, the roar of something far off filled the air. All around him, looks of unease took form on the faces of the legionaries.

"What was that?" Hadvar asked nobody in particular. The sound was like no animal he had heard before.

The commander answered the question that must have been on everyone's minds. "It's nothing. Carry on."

"Yes, General Tullius," the woman turned to another feminine figure in brown robes. "Give them their last rites."

The lady took a step forward, and lifted her hands over her head in prayer. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved..."

"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with." A Stormcloak with muddy red hair stepped up to the headsman's block. ' _Not a bad way to go considering what the legion usually did with prisoners,'_ he grimaced.

"Come on, I haven't got all morning." The captain eased him onto his knees, and then planted a boot on his back.

The prisoner on fell face forward on the block, and glared at the hooded man in black. "My ancestors are smiling on me imperials, can you say the same?"

The headman simply hefted the large two handed ax, and brought it down on the neck of the condemned like it was a just a section of dried pine. The head flew from the rest of the body with the sickening sound of steel cutting bone.

"You Imperial bastards!" An angry female voice called from the crowd.

He heard "Justice," and "Death to the Stormcloaks," from others. From their voices, he judged them to be locals.

"As fearless in death as he was in life." Ralof the Stormcloak, muttered aloud for a few to hear.

A pair of Legionaries stepped up for the thankless task of removing the headless corpse.

"Next, the imposter in gray!" The armored bitch pointed at him, when they were halfway out of the parade ground.

 _'Almost there,'_ David let out a deep breath before slowly walking over to the block.

Before he could take a step, that strange far off roar came again.

"There it is again. Did you hear that?" Hadvar asked aloud to any who would listen, and this time just a little more worried than the last.

"I said, next prisoner," cried the unrelenting hardass.

"To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy." Hadvar spoke in a calm, soothing voice that would have instantly landed him a job at a meat packing plant in the NCR operating a slaughterhouse.

Two steps in, he starting whistling the tune of an old hymn, he'd learned in his childhood. He'd learned somewhere around the ruins of Leadville once, that many in the Legion believed downright silly things about anyone who preached the gospel.

After Graham's literal fall from the Legion's graces, the absurd and sometimes violent beliefs held by the leadership gave way to brutal persecution in Legion territory of anyone believed to be a Christian. Hell, even knowledge of the New Testament could be a death sentence (or the Book of Mormon for that matter), as Caesar tried harder and harder to entrench the gargantuan lie that was the Cult of Mars.

Part of him felt that it was a good way to go, a symbol of closure. If he was honest with himself though, he just wanted to see how many people would it would piss off.

Halfway there, he started singing when nobody seemed to get it.

" _I'll fly away, oh glory_

 _I_ _'ll fly away in the morning_

 _When I die, hallelujah by and by_

 _I'll fly away"_

He stopped at the foot of the block, where he got a better view of the officer. Her complexion, had visibly darkened, and she looked ready to pop a vein.

"Any last words, imposter?" The rough voice of Tullius bellowed at him. He turned to face the block, and prepared to make his move. "Say my name!"

"What in Oblivion is that?" he was caught off guard when the general's voice suddenly shifted focus and ignored him.

"Sentries! What do you see?" The speaker had lost focus for the opening he needed.

David shifted his stance and his position. His arms ripped the now flimsy binds apart.

Time slowed to a crawl as the centurion, captain, wannabee, future breeding slave, or whatever Caesar would have called her, looked back in his direction in time to be on the receiving end of a ranger take down. His right foot hit her knees, and knocked her on her armored ass.

He pressed the attack, and came on her. With one swift motion, he drew her blade, and settled it against her throat.

"Don't just stand there kill that thing!" The hoarse voice of the general screamed to his troops.

David surveyed his surroundings, and could see chaos unfolding. Stormcloaks were running in every direction while the legionaries drew their weapons and completely ignored them. All the while, Tullius was furiously barking orders to his aides.

An explosion came from behind him, an explosion of sound. It shook the earth, and brought even more chaos to the scene.

David stole a glance at the source of the noise. What he saw left him at a loss for words.

"Uh oh." It was all David could mouth as a warm sensation blossomed from his thighs, and trickled down his bare legs.

Not even West-Tek or the Big MT could have made something this evil.

* * *

 **Author's Note: With all the possible legion jokes (Caesar's Legion vs Imperial Legion), there's no way I could write this without the Life of Brian reference. Especially given the fact that my first playthrough was an Imperial named "Biggus Dickus." I also like to think this would be hilarious if played in Caesar's court.**

 **Also, if you like this story, be sure to favorite, and/or follow, but most importantly drop a review (seriously I live for this stuff) telling me what you liked and what you want to see in the story.**


	4. Unbound

"Dragon!" he heard someone give voice to their fear.

Somewhere above him, a tower of stone shuddered under the landing of something huge.

In spite of the fact that an arrow was planted in his shoulder and another on his arse, it was all Flokir of Riften could do not to laugh.

 _'Perhaps Akatosh had intervened,'_ he wondered.

The shock of being hit in the rear had worn off moments before. It took every bit of discipline in Flokir to stay silent.

A loud noise came from the top of the tower. It was a noise he had never heard, and one he knew would never forget.

The light of day visibly dimmed.

He lie still on the cobble path only half way to freedom, unable to look up.

Explosions of fire erupted all over Helgen, and Flokir took a risk. He reached around for the arrows and ripped them out. To quicken the clotting of his wounds, he cast a healing spell.

To his knowledge, Flokir had not attracted attention from his actions.

The thief looked up, and saw carnage like never seen before. Houses were aflame and stone walls were crumbling under a roving stream of fire.

He was suddenly aware of several voices ahead of him.

"Haming, you need to get over here, now!" Flokir recognized the voice of Hadvar. "That a boy, you're doing great."

"Torolf, gods everyone get back!"

A terrible shout came from up the road, and Flokir sprang into action quick enough to take cover from the roaring flames. As stayed in cover, Hadvar spotted him.

"Still alive prisoner? Keep close to me if you want to stay that way."

Hadvar crossed the street, and ducked into an alley. Flokir followed close by.

"Keep close to the walls!" Hadvar shouted just in time for the dragon to land on the walls, and shower anyone in front of the soldier with fire.

Flokir was pressed against the stone wall hoping that the dragon would not notice him. His hopes were not in vain, and the dragon just flew off as he didn't care about his prey.

Flokir saw the opening, and took it. With the bony legionary behind him, he ran through a labyrinth of destruction. It ended when he found the front door of a burning house, which Hadvar kicked down without a second thought.

Between him and the closed gate, he saw a handful of angry battlemages fighting a losing battle.

"It's you and me prisoner, stay close." Flokir followed him, keeping his eyes peeled for a chance to escape.

They entered the courtyard of Helgen's Keep. He could not help but feel a streak of optimism. From the keep of Helgen, there would be an escape route that constructed for times when the garrison had to pull out in a hurry or in secret.

As they ran for the keep, he could see soldiers approaching. They were Stormcloaks armed and spoiling to kill something within reach.

"Ralof! You damned traitor. Out of my way!" Hadvar addressed the blond who stood at the forefront in a tone that suggested something personal between the two.

"We're escaping, Hadvar. You're not stopping us this time," Ralof rebuked Hadvar.

He got a look at the men standing behind Ralof. Among them was Ulfric himself as well as the man he had foolishly tried to rob, and would never have bothered if every bounty hunter and sellsword in the Rift wasn't looking for him.

"Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!" Hadvar screamed at the Stormcloak. No doubt they were friends once.

The Stormcloaks simply passed him by. Not one save the strange man in tattered gray tunic even paid him any mind.

Their eyes met for a moment. Flokir could not place it, but there was something unnatural about his eyes which seemed to bore into his very soul. In those stormy blue eyes, he could see undisguised contempt. The lines on his face tightened with displeasure. His face was one, that it took a second look to realize that some of the lines on his face were just old scars.

His focus shifted to that of his companions as they passed him by.

Flokir likewise looked for Hadvar, and was rewarded by a hand gesture. "With me, into the keep!" Hadvar shouted once they passed.

* * *

Ralof was the first one in through the door. He had seen how the other Stormcloaks looked at him, and it was clear he knew this place best.

The interior of the castle, was well furnished with the stuffed heads of unmutated wildlife. The floor was graced by a large rug of a strange pattern. What grabbed his attention most, was the banners along the that hung from the top of the walls. A strange symbol in crimson, was curled up in the shape of a rhombus against a black background. It had horns giant wings and a long serpentine tail.

He thought back to the parade ground, and realized that there was a similar banner over there. He kicked himself mentally for not noticing it sooner. Contemplating the banner, it was obvious that they were not Caesar's Legion.

 _'So who were they?'_ David thought to himself. Had someone in the better half of Colorado, rebelled against the leadership of Edward Sallow? It wouldn't be the first civil war he'd seen.

"So this is it," Chief Ulfric asked Ralof in his deep voice that brought David out of his contemplation.

Aside from Ralof, there were two other Stormcloaks as well as their chief. All in all, there were five of them.

"No my lord, at least not this way."

"I don't know where that dragon came from, but I do know that without it, we'd all be a foot shorter and a lot less talkative." ' _A dragon?'_ David thought with a start. He had no clue what to think except for 'oh shit.' From what he had seen, the thing looked like a Northern Deathclaw with wings.

"That thing was a dragon. No doubt. Just like the children's stories and the legends. The Harbingers of the end times." David snickered, the end times came 200 years ago, and now the descendants of the wicked were left to survive on a land their ancestors destroyed. Now its children, warred with one another over things Old America would call insignificant.

"Let's get that door open," Ulfric pointed at an iron door. One soldier tried to open it, but it was locked.

"Get moving," a familiar and harsh voice served to remind him that enemies were only one gate away. "Get this gate open!"

No sooner had barked out order, the gate began to rumble open. Following the cues from the Stormcloaks, he pressed himself against the circular wall of the entry room.

The first enemy soldier entered the room and didn't even have time to react to Ralof swinging an ax at his unprotected throat. The steel ax bit into the legionary who fell to stone floor trying in vain to pull it out.

The second one was man with a youthful face and a frame that did a poor job filling his armor entered, and went straight to Ulfric swinging wildly. The Stormcloak Chieftain grabbed the wrist of the skinny swordsman, and forced him to drop his weapon. With his other hand he started pounding at the boy's exposed face.

He focused on the third. It was the bitch whose sword he had taken in the chaos. She had a new blade in hand now, and a shield in the other.

Their eyes met and for one quick moment, they sized up one another. The officer put up her shield, and changed stance, daring him to attack.

David grabbed a shield from the dead one, and moved towards her.

He brought his blade down on the shield, and the captain tried to stab him in his gut. David took two steps back and parried the attack.

She withdrew her blade, and pressed forward with a wicked slash that he avoided by leaning back. Taking advantage of his position, she put all her strength into a downward thrust with the blade.

David raised his shield in time, and the blade went through the wooden shield stopping it enough for him to cast the shield aside, and send the lodged piece of steel across the room.

Before she could recover, he struck her sword arm where it was weakest, and drew blood.

With his free hand, he ripped the shield away from the woman. With the other, he pressed the sword against her Adam's apple.

"What's my name?" he grabbed her unbloodied left arm to keep her from running away. For a moment she hesitated.

"Say my name!" David shouted for all to hear.

"Biggus... Dickus," the woman gritted the reply through her teeth.

"You're goddamn right," he released his hold and withdrew the blade. As soon as she took a deep breath, he grabbed her throat and pressed her against the cold stone wall.

"You see, that wasn't so hard lady." David spoke in a low gritty voice, and sniffed the air pretending to savor the fear that came from her body odor. It was almost strong enough for him to forget that he had emptied his own bladder a couple minutes ago upon seeing a purported fairly tale that looked very much a flying deathclaw.

"Now, we need to get out of here, and something tells me you can open that iron door." David pointed at it with the sword. She nodded indicating that she could.

"That's a good girl," he released her, and planted a light peck on her nose to see how she would react. If anything, it stripped away whatever nerve she had left.

She walked across the room and produced a key which opened the iron door, before making a run for the hallway that she came out of.

Ralof wasted no time in leading them all down the stairs that wrapped around the small fortress descending into the underground.

A rumble from above greeted them at the bottom. Something snapped and the corridor up ahead caved in leaving only a single door accessible from where they all stood.

"Damn that dragon doesn't give up easy," was all the talkative blond had to say. He opened the door, to what appeared to be a supply room.

"Take what you can carry, its still a long way to Windhelm," ordered Ulfric.

His men went to work rifling through barrels, cabinets, and crates looking for supplies. One of them tossed him a pair of boots.

David looked down and realized that he had been through the whole ordeal without something to cover his feet. The shoes in question were made of leather, and in the front, a shinguard was held in place by a pair of buckles. One was at the crown of the boot, and the other settled just above his ankle.

He put the boots on, then went looking around for supplies like the rest. In one sack, he found what he judged to be two pounds worth of potatoes and snatched it.

Ulfric ordered his men to move on. At this moment, he got an idea of what they were looking for. Some found weapons and armor, some found food, but every one of them stuffed a bottle of something into their packs.

David ran behind the rest carrying his meager plunder in the burlap sack over his shoulder.

"Troll's Blood!" Someone ahead shouted in rage, "It's a torture chamber."

He could practically feel the descending hallway heat with the rage of the now charging Stormcloaks. By the time he entered the room, the two unlucky souls were on the cold stone spilling their lifeblood, on the uneven stone floor. Not that he pitied such men.

"Jarl Ulfric, it's good to see you," an injured Stormcloak brave addressed his chief or 'jarl' as they called him. Ralof dug into his pack and produced a small red vial and handed it to the wounded man. "You'll need this."

"Thank you," replied the man as he opened the vial, and downed the contents.

He and another joined their meager fighting force, making seven in total.

"Lets move." The tribals instantly fell in line at the sound of Ulfric's voice and followed him out, with David bringing up the rear. As he left, he snatched a knapsack and stowed away his supplies. He left the now empty burlap sack in its place. It would do until he got his actual gear back wherever it was. He would have to ask around just how far they were.

They left the room through a hole in the wall that led down into a cave. He felt a flicker of hope, figuring this to be an escape tunnel.

"Orders are to wait until General Tullius arrives," a strong and gruff voice could be heard up ahead, a sergeant's David guessed.

"I'm not waiting to be killed by a dragon, we need to fall back." A younger voice objected to his commander.

He could hear the groan of something horrible on the surface.

And behind him, he could hear the enemy in their heavier armor on their tail.

* * *

Flokir picked the lock on the cage with ease, and relieved the dead mage within of his worldly possessions. By the cut of the cloth, the man was a novice with only a basic grip on magic, not unlike himself.

The robes stank of death as he put the surprisingly warm raiment on. 'Well, s _o did everything in here,'_ he decided. He only had time to put on his clothing before he heard the bulk of the Legion rushing down the hallway. Before long, soldiers in dark red and polished steel crowded the torture chamber.

"Where's General Tullius?" Flokir watched his gaze knowing that he was speaking to the officer charged to oversee his execution.

"He's still up there I think... there's others trapped up there." Her voice was so changed by fear, that he almost didn't recognize it. "He'll leave from the North gate, with the townsfolk and the Thalmor."

He could hear Hadvar sigh at the mention of the Thalmor party that he'd spotted earlier. The bony Nord had a dislike of those purist bastards that Flokir, like many in Skyrim had come to share. Those he knew had a habit of viewing humans the way he might view a dog, and he was well aware that he was considered a mongrel breed.

"And you, are you here to evacuate the keep's garrison?" Hadvar asked the woman, who had probably left her stones somewhere upstairs.

"I need your help Quaestor." The woman replied addressing him by his rank. "Catch them... The Stormcloaks... they'll kill everyone we don't get to first."

"Yes, captain." Hadvar motioned for them to lead the way.

Flokir grabbed a torch from a sconce on the wall, and was the first out of the chamber. It was a short walk down a hallway before he saw a large hole in the wall.

Lowering his torch, he could see the stone floor give way to loose gravel and then to dirt. That many had just left through the hole was obvious. Flokir even swore that he could taste the dust still in the air.

He hesitated as those behind him caught up. Flokir knew that at least one of the Stormcloaks who had gone down here knew of a way out, and he was eager to find it. Hopefully, it would happen before any one who wanted his head was the wiser. With the help of the quaestor, that would not be too hard.

On the other hand, there was only so far he dared go by himself. He had never been to Helgen, let alone its underbelly. The place seemed more likely to cave in with every passing moment and he didn't want to get lost. He also did not want to meet the Stormcloaks by himself.

That's when he heard the echoes of battle up ahead. He cautiously walked through the breach.

Not every one was cautious though. Five legionaries rushed past him to aid their brothers in arms. Behind them, Flokir quickened his pace. The element of stealth was nothing now.

He entered the chamber behind an archer who took an arrow through his helmet, and was dead before he hit the walkway.

Flokir ducked in the case that a stray arrow happened to be on its way. He made his way to the nearest railing. His right hand moved the torch as far from his face and possible, both to draw the arrows away from his face, and to help focus in the dimly lit cavern. The only thing that drowned out the skirmish was the flow of a creek somewhere nearby.

A walkway of stone wrapped around the walls, to an exit that the last of Ulfric Stormcloak's rebels were slipping away through. Three members of the Legion cautiously pursued stopped only by a barrier of fire left by their pursued. Whatever happened to the last of his number was beyond his idea. One of them looked towards him, and Flokir understood what the soldier expected.

He ran up to the fire, which would probably burn for some time if left alone. Instead, he focused on the base of the fire, and smothered it with a frostbite spell.

"Good work mage," Hadvar whispered as he caught up.

With the three, he continued down the cave with Hadvar. Somewhere behind him was the officer and at least two wounded soldiers. The exit was a narrow flight of stairs that led him to an opened drawbridge.

From above, a long reassuring ray of daylight shone on the bridge like a sign from the divines. They crossed the drawbridge, and Hadvar started barking orders to his new squad.

All words and thoughts were interrupted at another rumble from above. Flokir looked back in time to see a massive slab of rock come down on Hadvar's commanding officer and the drawbridge as well.

Flokir felt a grim streak of satisfaction as he saw his escape getting easier.

"Damn it. No going back that way." One of the legion heavy footmen stated the obvious with gloom in his voice.

"I guess we're just lucky that it only took one of us," replied another guard.

We'd better move, I'm sure the others will find another way out." Hadvar spoke as if his words were enough to condemn the anyone behind them. "Let's try not to engage the Stormcloaks."

* * *

"That must be the way out," Ralof kept his exited voice low lest he invoke the wrath of the sleeping bear. "I knew we'd make it."

He didn't know how, but they all managed to sneak past the bear without disturbing it. They called it a cave bear. The creature looked unlike any Yao Guai he had seen. No matter how far from the bombed zones he went, those hairless bastards were always around.

Not many species could have benefited from radiation, but the almost ghoulified descendants of bears had become tough enough to take on just about anything else that shared the world.

He was not in the mood to engage the sleeping creature, and no one else was for that matter.

David was the second to leave the hole in the ground and face the blinding sunlight.

They all took a moment to adjust to the light of the day. When he did, he heard a curious noise from up ahead. Turning his gaze to the sound, he saw the monster from earlier just flying off into the morning sky.

"Let's get out of here. I think they're still on our tails." Ulfric chief of the Stormcloaks ordered his people to press on in his low baritone voice.

As they began making distance, Ralof suddenly collapsed not a hundred feet from the cave exit. With a cry of pain he landed on his knees.

His people stopped only for him to tell them to go on without him.

David took a moment to asses the man's injuries. He had taken a nasty cut on his left arm among other injuries that should have by rights severed an artery. "What is it, blood loss?" He inquired.

"No," Ralof shook his head. "It's spider venom." I just need to let the poison run its course, but that may take some time." He recalled walking into that den of hairy freaks that probably ate fire ants for breakfast. He had managed to keep himself from being bitten or being wherever they spewed their poison. Ralof on the other hand was bitten several times. The only reason he was feeling it now, was probably because his adrenaline was wearing out. Besides," he changed his tone somewhat, "My sister lives over in Riverwood. I won't attract much attention by myself, and I can recover there. Otherwise, I'll only slow you down."

"Then hopefully, we'll meet again soon Ralof." Ulfric bid him farewell then moved down the road with the rest of his followers. Ulfric turned his head one last time to face him, "Take care of Ralof will you, its a long way to Windhelm from here for one wounded man to travel." David said nothing and watched them go. Once they were gone, Ralof asked for help in getting to Riverwood.

"How far's that?" David asked thoughtfully.

"Not too far from here. Should be no more than a few hours north of here on foot." The wounded soldier pointed to indicate north.

"I'm not carrying you all the way to your to your family, if that's what you're asking," David may have been blessed with excellent strength thanks to his dad's side of the family, but he wasn't about to carry a complete stranger over unfamiliar territory.

"Talos forbid, I let anyone carry me like that." Ralof shook his head. "I can still use my feet, I'll just need help staying up."

David offered his hand which Ralof accepted. He pulled the Stormcloak to his feet, which seemed to shake just a little. He brought the hand he held around his shoulder, and without a word, they started down the rocky path to Riverwood eager to get as far from the Legion stronghold as possible.

David knew there had to be other survivors. Most of them would not be friendly. Wherever he was, stranger and enemy could be the same word.

He felt a small sense of comfort in having a blade at his side, and a free hand to use it.

 **Author's Note:**

 **So many questions last about last chapter and the story in general came up. Here's a little info.**

 **First of all, many of you have been asking about David's gear. Rest assured that he will recover it eventually.**

 **Second, Ulysses will be around, but it will probably be a chapter or two before I can start his arc.**

 **And finally for all who asked about a certain general's great friend in the Imperial city. There is no house of Dickus (Although it's fun to pretend that someone's descended from the hero of Kvatch), and yes he has a wife. Figure out your own names for her though, I doubt it will even matter in the story tbh.**

 **Special thanks to Mandalore the Freedom for beta reading and being the best consultant a writer like me can ask for.**

 **As always Favorite, Like, Review.**


	5. Laying low

The pinging from her pip-boy jolted her out of another nightmare. They came often these days.

She took a few deep breaths before checking the thing on her wrist.

It was a transmission with two lines of text. _I'm sorry Veronica -_ _David Ishmael Kelly,_ _s_ aid the first.

Veronica blinked hard at the thought. Below it two very precise numbers were given; numbers that could only be coordinates. She felt herself instinctively swallow only to realize that her throat had run dry.

She found a piece of scrap paper, and scribbled down the numbers. Veronica then opened the map on the pip-boy, and punched in the numbers. The map zeroed in to a location, a ways northwest of Primm.

Mentally, Veronica calculated the distance, the possible routes to Primm, and the charity of her current friends.

Times were changing for the Boomers, and unlike the Brotherhood, they would thrive in the merciless times these were.

Also unlike the Brotherhood, both House and NCR wanted the denizens of Nellis Air Force Base on their side. The thought left Veronica, more than a little bitter.

After the incident in the Henderson rail yard, David had never once raised arms against the Mojave Brotherhood of Steel. Instead, he merely sentenced them to death, like Caesar putting his thumb down after a gladiator match.

Cutler and his cronies were left to die with horrible wounds, when the former courier floored the accelerator, dropped her off here, and demanding that she stay here. The Boomers took her in like one of their own, offering some comfort to her in the darkest night of her life.

But then morning came, and with it David. She remembered trying to read a face that looked like he'd aged a few years since she saw him speed off in his armored Highwayman to Hidden Valley. She'd seen him enough to know he'd done something he wanted no part of.

"I once promised the elder I'd return any holotags I came across." His voice betrayed no anger, nor much of any emotion for that matter, just weariness. But then again, he hid things as a rule rather than an exception.

"Did you hurt anybody?" Veronica had asked him.

The response had nearly frozen her blood, and chilled her to the bone whenever she remembered the reply. "Didn't have to. Just read them from the book."

Even now, she still wondered what he had said to the elder. Veronica also wondered what book he'd read to them from, but it probably wasn't the Codex.

"You actually walked away without killing someone?" At the time Veronica was a little surprised. Most of the time David was a reserved, calculating man with a somewhat frigid personality, to anybody who did not know him well enough. The day before, he'd gone berserk and looked madder than a wounded Deathclaw.

"Cutler and his squad had no orders from MacNamara to kill you or the Followers." His mostly stoic face then gave way to a snarl. "They just wanted to prove themselves and have everybody in your tribe see them as big men."

It had been no small relief to know that she was not in danger of being hunted down by another death squad in power armor worn by the people she'd grown up with.

"They care about you, Veronica. Even Hardin who's mad as hell at me, just about broke down when he heard they almost killed you."

Paladin Hardin and David had a strong dislike of one another from their first meeting when Hardin asked for help in becoming the new elder. "The last thing your tribe needs is a wannabee alpha male pounding his chest at the world," was David's cold response.

The paladins hated the idea of being equated with a bunch of face painted spear throwers, but the real meaning was lost on them. The scribes understood why he called the Brotherhood of Steel a tribe. Even if they didn't care to admit it, xenophobia, isolation and a slowly stagnating gene pool were hurting them as much if not more than the NCR.

"Still, they think your exile was the best choice you could have made." The words hurt Veronica far more than they had a right to, and she let out another deep breath.

Before she could say anything to respond, he stretched out his arms and pulled her into a hug. "I'm sorry it came to this." She couldn't understand what he meant by that statement. She thought he was talking about the Followers, but a few days later, Veronica realized what he'd done.

She had heard on the radio of that a squad of NCR rangers drove a herd of captured Bighorners into hidden valley, with the suspected purpose of establishing a temporary ranger station and supply dump within a few hours southwest of McCarran. A spokesman from Camp Golf denied NCR involvement and stated that they were "a bunch of cowboys on leave."

If that wasn't obvious enough, The Hidden Valley Ranch as the rangers had nicknamed it, even had its own brand "ICU" stamped on the hides of every sheep. Veronica could only imagine how they were taking this.

Part of her was angry at David for what he'd done. Hidden Valley was under siege because of him, and the large dysfunctional family she'd been born into would starve soon if the rangers didn't move on.

On the other hand, it was mercy all things considered. The NCR for all its faults represented law and order for the wastes. For too many generations the Brotherhood of Steel did what they wanted without impunity. When a legitimate government in California formed to serve the interests of downtrodden, Jeremy Maxson learned the hard way that there were laws outside of the bunkers. They were laws made by an outside force that more or less gave the codex a stiff one finger salute.

The decline of the Brotherhood, in a way reminded her very much of the stories she'd heard about the old tribes from before the bombs. The US government had its way with anybody they considered backwards, with only a few tribes smart enough to adapt to a changing world.

She dressed in the dark early morning light. It was about hour until sunrise, and there was no way she would fall back asleep after this.

The early morning hours ticked away slowly for Veronica, in the forsaken Quonset hut that she'd fixed up with the help of Jack and his newlywed wife, Janet. Right now, this was the closest thing she had to a home.

Sure, she could have stayed in the Lucky 38. Veronica had loved that place once. It was a luxurious time capsule to a bygone era of luxury, class and stylish clothing, inhabited by an adoptive family of sorts. The more time she spent in the 38 however, the more she felt trapped.

Cass had called the place a gilded cage, but David said it best with a few drinks under his belt. "When you're working for House, you can check out any time you'd like, but you can never leave."

Even in Boomer territory, she could practically feel the shadow of the tower, and the great watchful eye of House on her. Wasn't there some old prewar book about a dark lord in a dark tower in a dark wasteland looking for his precious jewelry?

She left the hut at the crack of dawn and made her way to the mess hall. The call for breakfast was only a minute away when she arrived, and she got her meal well before the chow line formed.

Her breakfast was an omelet with a piece of cactus fruit on the side and a bottle of cold, clean water. Breakfast as of late, was something the Boomers savored. If Veronica had to guess, it would be Janet's recipes.

The newest addition to the big gun toting family, seemed to be everywhere these days. Sometimes she could be found in the kitchen, preparing a new dish. Other times she'd be with Jack trying her hand at farming. In longer periods of absence, she would be making runs to Freeside.

Not two days ago, Janet helped broker an agreement with the Gun Runners with the help of Cass.

After Breakfast, Janet, Jack, Loyal and a few others would fire up the restored switcher in the railyard and ride to the edge of Freeside where they would make their trades.

Veronica wasn't quite sure what to do afterwards, but Cass would be there.

Right now, Cass was the only friend of David's that she had the courage to look in the eyes right now. She really wasn't sure how she should be taking this, but she would know after a conversation with Cass.

* * *

"Thank you for your help, friend." The blond Stormcloak spoke as he removed his blood stained armor. Beneath his leathers, the man had three nasty wounds. There was of course the cut on his arm that had clotted somewhere up the road, and there were two open wounds that had to be bite marks.

It was slow going at first, but the road was easy to negotiate. In about an hour's time, they stopped by a pond, a couple miles later. The water looked stagnant, but after a taste test, he figured it was clean enough so long as it didn't taste metallic.

David took the dusty blue cloak from him and dipped it in the pond. He offered it to Ralof, who took it and began the process of washing out the cuts he had taken.

"So what brings you to Skyrim?" The chatty man asked him.

He shrugged. David did not know a thing about Skyrim or how he got here. Raloff did not strike him as someone whose world view was restricted to a handful of settlements within half a weeks ride, so he decided to try the alien invader approach for the hell of it. The response would be more telling anyways.

"So imagine I'm like some kind of alien from another planet." David asked Ralof as soon as the man finished cleaning his wounds. "What can you tell me about Skyrim?"

The blond looked him over, "Alien? Planet?" The look on the man's face was uncomprehending.

"So imagine some star in the sky, another world where life can exist. Then imagine, a spaceship lands on your world. Some dude like me in weird clothing comes along and says _'Take me to your leader.'_ How do you respond?" David wasn't really sure if he'd landed on another planet, but looking around, it might as well be true. If it was possible it would explain why the land was untouched by the bombs, why he couldn't access the map on the his pip boy, or why the night sky looked so strange.

The man's eyes filled with equal measures of skepticism and curiosity. "You're telling me, that there are ships that can sail across the skies and visit the stars?"

David smirked, "oh, that and more, but tell me, how would you and your friends treat someone such as myself?"

The Stormcloak beamed at the question. "We would feast with you in our halls, and listen to your stories no matter how strange they sound."

David grinned. Wherever he was, it sounded like he'd already made a few friends. At the same time, he wasn't sure he liked getting lots of attention in an unfamiliar land. "What can you tell me about Skyrim by chance?"

Ralof shrugged "Where would I begin? The food and drink are the best anywhere, The women are to die for, and its where the real men come from."

For such a small bit of probably biased information, he learned an awful lot.

"What should I know about the skirt wearers, who wanted us dead?" They couldn't be Caesar's Legion, but what were they?

"Imperial Legion, the fifth one. The Empire still wants our taxes and blood, but can't be bothered to rule us with respect". Ralof's voice was consumed with emotion as he spoke.

"General Tullius is their leader if you remember him, the one in the pretty armor with that friend in Cryodil. Don't let his foppish plate fool you though, he's the Emperor's very own attack dog."

"How terrified should I be?" David's tone was not flattering. The Imperials fought well enough, but Caesar's Legion could have eaten those men for breakfast with nothing more than rusted machetes.

"Very," Ralof spoke in a serious tone. "He's not one for charm, but when it comes to planning, he's as sly as a fox."

The analogy made David think of Vulpes Inculta, and he couldn't help but shudder.

"You know, you should head to Windhelm, and join the fight to free Skyrim. You've seen the true face of the Empire here today."

"So how far to your people?" David figured he'd heard enough for the moment, and changed the subject.

"Should be half a day's walk down the road." Ralof, was now busy dressing his wounds with some purple flower whose petals he had crushed. If this helps me any though, we should be there before the sun peaks.

"What's the plant you're dressing the cuts with?"

The soldier looked at him for a second before something clicked within him. "Oh this, its the Purple Mountain Flower. The alchemists use this all the time to treat frostbite venom. Something in the flower dissolves the venom I think."

David simply nodded, now that he thought of it, he'd seen a similar cure for Cazador venom when he was in Zion. The cure seemed to be taking an immediate effect, the man's muscles seemed to relax as he sat there.

A minute or so passed, before Ralof put his armor back on. He slipped the leathers over his head, but took care to leave the shirt of metal links in his pack.

Without a word, they continued the journey, this time with Ralof pulling his own weight. David had offered to carry his pack, but the man was nearly as stubborn as he was chatty.

They walked down the road for a while. Ralof had nothing to say at the moment, for which he was grateful. Right now, he was lost in thought.

It was a lot for him to take in. The air was a little chilly, but the countryside was full of life as far as the eye could see. The place had a brute romantic charm to it, that made him think of the Glacier lands across from the Glowing Tundra, that only the Montana Brotherhood dared to tread and past the Flatheads where some of the most savage tribes in Montana dwelt.

David felt his eyes gravitating towards something in the distance on a mountain. The place had the look of ruins, not like prewar ruins, but ruins that seemed to predate everything else in the world like the pueblo dwellings in Mesa Verde..

"See that ruin up there?" Ralof noticed his eyes on the ruins. "That's Bleak Falls Barrow. Never understood how my sister could stand living in the shadow of that place."

"We getting closer?" David asked hopefully.

Ralof nodded, "should be less than an hour from here. Just remember, this isn't Stormcloak territory. If we're ahead of the news from Helgen we should be fine as long as we don't do anything stupid."

"Don't worry, I know a thing or two about hiding in plain sight," David allowed a grin, "You might say it's been like a second job to me."

"What did you do?" The Stormcloak was trying to size him up yet again.

"I've done lots of things, man. Dangerous things."

The chatty blond just stared at him suddenly at a loss for words.

"Soldiered for a few different armies, most of them lost. I was a missionary once, that one took some real cojones, but it was worth it. I ran caravans through some of the most dangerous lands in the West. Oh, and I was a courier whenever I had to run and hide. Got to be a gentleman rancher for a few years with a family though, so that was fun."

Ralof just shook his head, "If we run into more Imperials, just let me do the talking, all right?"

"Thanks man, I appreciate it," he patted the man on the back. "Besides, I don't have many good conversations with men in skirts," David commented dryly.

Some time passed, before the two eventually arrived at the village of Riverwood. The small settlement was well tucked in the river valley and was practically hidden from their approach. Past a small gate for an incomplete wall made of stone and braced with rough hewn timber, he found himself walking down the main street.

The layout of the town, reminded him very much of Avery on the St. Joe minus that damned railyard that the elites from Conda and the Lodge had been clamoring for.

"Let's go find Gerdur," Ralof motioned for David to follow him.

"A dragon, I saw a dragon." Some old lady with an outfit that looked straight out of New Canaan spoke with excitement to a younger man with flowing blond hair.

"What, what is it now mother?" The young man spoke with a tired disdain for the woman who had apparently brought him into the world.

"It was as big as the mountain and black as night. It flew right over the barrow." The old woman was practically begging her son to believe her, even though she might have been the village crackpot in saner times.

"Dragons now is it?" the son rudely retorted. "Please, mother. If you keep going on like this, people will think you're crazy."

The man turned away waving a hand in dismissal. "Besides, I have better things to do than listen to more of your fantasies."

"You'll see," the woman's voice was now a near growl. "It was a dragon. It will kill us all, and then you'll believe me."

He thought of No Bark over in Novacs, and wondered what kind of stories they could tell about all the times they were right and no one believed them. David let out a soft chuckle at the thought which earned him a knowing look from Ralof.

He followed the Stormcloak across a small wooden footbridge that spanned an island in the river that held a small lumber mill.

"Gerdur!" Ralof called out to his sister.

He saw a woman cutting wood with dirty blond hair in a faded green dress, that was clearly worn down by hard work. She dropped the splitting maul, and ran straight for Ralof wrapping her arms around him.

Ralof went rigid for a moment before returning the hug. They just stood there for a moment before she stepped back and their eyes met. "Mara's Mercy, its good to see you! But is it safe for you to be here?"

"Gerdur," he tried to calm her down. "I'm fine. At least now I am."

"Are you hurt? What's happened?" She turned to face him. "And who's this? One of your comrades?"

"Not a comrade yet...but a friend. I owe him my life, in fact." Ralof looked nervously. "Is there somewhere we can talk? There's no telling when the news from Helgen will reach the Legion..."

"Helgen? Has something happened...?" Gerdur cut off her brother at the mention of the place up the road. "You're right. Follow me. Hod!" She raised her voice. "Come down here a minute. I need your help with something."

"What is it, woman? Sven drunk on the job again?" The voice came from somewhere behind the mill.

"Hod. Just come here," replied Gerdur.

David turned his attention to a stocky man walking along the edge of the mill floor, and into view. His face was square shaped, and his chin was decorated with one of the best trimmed horseshoe mustaches he'd seen. The man looked at David but paid him no mind. When he saw Ralof though, his eyes widened.

"Ralof! What are you doing here?" asked Hod with surprise. "Hold on, I'll be right down!"

Before he could bring himself down to their level, a young boy came running to the scene with a dog in tow. "Uncle Ralof!" He exclaimed with excitement. "Can I see your axe? How many Imperials have you killed? Do you really know Ulfric Stormcloak?"

Gerdur was on him as soon as he finished. "Hush, Frodnar. This is no time for your games. Go and watch the south road. Find us if you see any Imperial soldiers coming."

"Aw, mama, I want to stay and talk with uncle Ralof!" Frodnar sighed with disappointment at the little family reunion cut short.

"Look at you, almost a grown man! Won't be long before you'll be joining the fight yourself!" The soldier greeted the boy with a toothy grin.

"That's right! Don't worry uncle Ralof, I won't let those soldiers sneak up on you!" The boy ran off with his dog and his mood once again in high spirits.

Hod let out a light chuckle after the boy left, then turned the face the conversation. "Now, Ralof, what's going on? You two look pretty well done in."

Ralof sighed "I can't remember the last time I slept. Where to start? Well, the news you heard about Ulfric was true. The Imperials ambushed us outside Darkwater Crossing. Like they knew exactly where we'd be. That was...two days ago, now."

David blinked at that revelation.

"We stopped at Helgen this morning, and I thought it was all over. Had us lined up for the headsman's block and ready to start chopping!"

"The cowards!" Reacted Gerdur.

"They wouldn't dare give Ulfric a fair trial. Treason, for fighting for your own people!" The Stormcloak's voice was emotional once again. "All of Skyrim would have seen the truth then! But then...out of nowhere...a dragon attacked."

"You don't mean a real, live..."

"I can hardly believe it myself, and I was there! As strange as it sounds, we'd be dead if not for that dragon. In the confusion, we managed to slip away. Are we really the first to make it to Riverwood?" Asked Ralof.

Gerdur shrugged. "Nobody has come up the south road today, as far as I know."

"Good. Maybe we can lay up for a while. I'd hate to put your family in danger, Gerdur, but..."

Nonsense." the woman gave her brother no room to argue. "You and your friend are welcome to stay as long as you need. Let me worry about the Imperials. Any friend of Ralof's is a friend of mine. Here's the key to the house. Stay as long as you like."

She turned to David. "There's something you can do for me. For all of us. We need to send word to Jarl Balgruuf to send whatever troops he can. Riverwood is defenseless. If you do that for me, I'll be in your debt."

"Sure thing, I'm not from around here though, so you'll have to point me in the right direction."

"It's just a few hours on the road north, you can't miss it." Ralof answered for him.

"You know, my best adventures always started as a Courier."

 **Author's note: Sorry for the wait, but things have been a wee bit crazy as of late.**

 **A few things I should bring up...**

 **I have decided that all New Vegas companions will have pipboys for reasons of logistics. That and considering the amount of exposure to RobCo and Vault-Tec in the story, it feels totally logical.**

 **David has a long history, that goes well beyond the Mojave and The West Coast. I will be taking some inspiration from Van Buren in his backstory as far as Colorado, Utah, and Arizona go, but everything north of that runs by the seat of my pants, although there is mention of a Brotherhood of Steel presence in Montana in Fallout 3**


	6. May you find a road

**Ulysses**

He heard the call from far off. Like some great beast in the distance asserting his dominance.

Ulysses had never heard such a noise, but knew it was one he'd remember. Far removed from the terror of the Divide, his scouting instincts still made him wary of unfamiliar sounds, and here there were many.

Wherever he was, it was a land of life. Was something like the tales of Nursery, or the Great Mountains in the East; his East as he knew it. Under his boots, the road he walked was made of cobbled stone, not like the asphalt of the old world roads, but something that _felt_ even older.

The air was good though, cold and clean. For the first time in some time, his respirator was in his pack rather than covering his face.

He didn't even know where he was going, he just wandered the alien land like some poor wayfaring stranger.

How Ulysses got here, was something he wanted to know. The last thing he recalled was his body being lifted to the sky like the hand of an invisible god. Next thing, he woke up with nothing but his staff, his smg, and a handful of grenades. Also on his pack, was his anti material rifle dissassembled.

He saw a fork in the road. A smaller road branching off to the right, a road less traveled. There were no signs to tell him where the roads took their travelers.

Without even a thought, he took the narrow path. As he moved down the road, something stopped him in his tracks.

A series of loud thumps came from behind a bend in the road. His instincts took over, and he found cover under the trees on the hill. The scene that unfolded before Ulysses was something that gave him pause.

At the end of the road, that led into the tiny valley was a camp fortified with a wooden palisade. Just outside of it was a super mutant, with a skin he'd never once seen from the Master's sons who came from the west, and once roamed Arizona free in the days before Caesar.

It fought the defenders on their timber parapets with a giant club that knocked men from their walls.

Waves of fire, seared the skin of the pale giant, but it hardly gave him pause. The gates flew open and a defender chucked his javelin. The throwing spear pierced the attacker above the knee, but still it came. Against its club, the warrior didn't have a chance. Its force knocked him from the ground and on to his back.

Ulysses decided to get closer, and sprang from his hiding place. He walked across the field with Old Glory in his hands.

He got a better look of the creature and realized it was not one of the Master's soldiers. It had too much hair.

The giant saw his approach and ignored those beyond the wall. It turned to face him. They looked at one another for one long moment. With a cry, it closed the distance with only a slight limp. The creature lifted his long club recklessly and swung it downwards at him.

Ulysses saw the move, and side-stepped the blow. As the club came down in a chopping motion, he brought the flagpole to bear against the monster's left kneecap. The impact of the blow forced it back a painful step. Without skipping a beat, he jabbed the soft underbelly of the beast with the wings of the eagle, and withdrew it before the giant could react.

Like a Night Stalker toying with larger prey, he slipped away from the giant. With the careful movement of one, he feinted left, and then to the right. His opponent's stance was wide, and his club was at his side ready to react to any coming attack.

The bearded giant did not have time to raise his club before Ulysses closed the distance, diving under his legs. Ulysses hit the ground with a roll, and found himself behind his opponent.

He got up swinging, bashing the gilded head of the pole against the knee, followed by another hard swing against the heel. The metal cut against the hardened flesh and came back bloodied both times.

A guttural moan of pain left its mouth, and with the hard prodding of the pole against the calves, it fell hard onto its knees.

It tried to get up, but its legs were too weak. He knew a vein had been severed with the sheer amount of blood that was now leaving the giant.

Ulysses drew his 10 millimeter from its loose hanging belt holster, and pulled back the slide. The sound of the gunshots carried through the valley, when he unleashed two rounds that severed its spine above the neck. His opponent teetered for a moment and fell face down on the trail.

"Halt, you have no business here outsider. Leave at once." A hard female voice scolded his presence now that it was all over.

Ulysses sighed, _Too territorial to_ _appreciate help from_ _anybody not of the tribe_. He turned around to face the speaker. He understood the suspicion in her voice, but most tribes offered would offer respect to match their justified fear.

These tribes were Caesar's biggest nightmare in the wars for Arizona as he knew too well. The isolationists forced him to show his true nature without any chance to convert the tribe and its warriors before enslaving the rest. Divide and conquer as he called it, did not work here, only conquest.

To his surprise, the speaker was no human. Its skin was green, much like those Master's army were, but she was but a few inches shorty than he. From her mouth, a pair of fangs stuck out. She wore a good suit of Leather armor with steel plates fitted to the chest piece, shoulders, thigh and knees.

Despite the tone of authority, there was fear in her eyes. Whoever they were, he could tell they had never heard a working gun. He lowered his weapon.

"Show some respect Ugor," another grating voice scolded the warrior in front of him. "Besides, we may need him." The speaker who wore a long black robe, stood atop the parapet. The hood of her robe hid most of her features. Ulysses assumed they looked much like those of Ugor.

"We need nothing from outsiders!" The green skinned woman forgot her fear, and turned to her peer. "Yamarz will provide for us."

"We cannot carry on this way, you know we are doomed if we do not do something!" The one in black robes countered with a tone of bitterness.

"Yamarz charged me with keeping outsiders away from Largashbur. You would have me disobey him?"

Ulysses listened to the conversation. From the way Ugor spoke of outsiders, he assumed that stranger and enemy were one here. That offered more questions than answers though.

"You were charged with keeping us inside the walls. Have faith, Ugor. I only wish the best for our tribe." The black one only pleaded this time.

"Fine, its your neck." The one known as Ugor walked through the opened gate, and motioned for him to follow. Ulysses holstered his gun, and followed.

Once inside he took a moment to look at the camp. Beyond the walls, was a hall of some kind built in the shape of a crescent.. Beyond it scattered against the rocky walls of the valley, was a small collection of wooden huts which stood against the gray rocks.

The speaker who spoke on his behalf, came down from the walls. "Forgive Ugor's harsh words. She is merely doing as she has been told."

"And to hate as well I suppose?" Ulysses shrugged.

"Please, our tribe suffers and we need help, our chief Yamarz, was once a strong and proud warrior. Now he is stricken, cursed. Now he is weak, and so is the tribe. The giants sense this, and intrude on our land. Now they attack our very home. Still, Yamarz refuses help, but I sense that you may be the one we need."

"And what would you want with an outsider that you cannot handle yourselves?" Ulysses regarded her with curiosity.

"Yamarz has demanded that we stay inside these walls, we cannot leave. I can only petition Malacath for relief, but I cannot travel to his shrine. The ritual must be done here, and there's one thing I need that I do not have."

"Speak then."

"There is a troll over that hill," she pointed to a small ridge. "Lost a battle against the giant. I need the Troll's meat. Once I have enough fat, the ritual can happen."

"What kind of chief do you have, that your people cannot get it yourselves?"

"A dying one," she conceded. "You look strong enough to carry the Troll by yourself, if you could do that, our tribe would be grateful. It might even bring Yamarz to his senses."

Part of him wondered what business he truly had here, but at that moment, the voice of Ulysses the Frumentarii took over.

"Then that is what shall be done." Ulysses concluded.

* * *

 **David**

He entered the Sleeping Giant, not entirely sure what to expect.

Gerdur had given him him some money. " _Septims,"_ she had called them. The money would get him a hot meal, which left his mouth watering at the very thought. That and a decent coat at Ralof's advice.

The coat would help him blend in much easier. The eyes of the few within at this hour were on him for a quick moment, but they were cursory looks of locals seeing another traveler, that they would hopefully ignore.

"What have you got?" He asked the bartender when he stepped up to the bar. The man was middle aged, and stocky to the point that he only missed the occasional meal. His hair was jet black, with a few tiny braids dangling from the edge of his hairline.

"We got rooms and food. Drink, too. I cook. Ain't much else to tell," the barkeep, replied dryly.

David gave an approving nod. "I'm a courier looking to get to Whiterun before dusk. I'd like some takeout. Any chance you got the makings for a Caravan Lunch?"

"Depends on where you're from. You don't look like a Khajit from elsewhere like the last caravan to come through, so I won't ask if it has Moon Sugar in it." David had no clue what a Khajit was, but he was not about to ask here. Maybe it was another racist slur for foreigners just as the man had slurred the word "elsewhere". Moon Sugar, by the context, was probably some sort of chem.

"Let's say I'm from Whiterun. What makes a good sack lunch in your book?"

"In my book?" The man behind the bar looked at him for a moment before understanding his meaning. David made a note to listen more often for the speech quirks of the locals, as a slip of the tongue at the wrong place could be disastrous.

"Lets see here..." He turned around and looked through a pantry for a few moments before producing his choice.

The man displayed a few items on the counter. A carrot, a red apple, a slice of cheese, and a ready slice of bread were lined up for his pleasure. The man then lifted his finger in a request for patience. "If you want some meat with that, Delphine will be out in a moment with a slice of salted beef."

"I would like that, how much?" David asked wondering how much the clean, and probably unmutated food was.

"That'll be twenty septims for the meal, courier." The man in the white tunic replied without batting an eye.

David opened the bag of coins, and counted out the correct amount. When asked, Raloff told him it would get him at least two roadside meals and a night's stay in Whiterun.

As he handed the coins over, he decided he was thirsty. "Got anything to wash it down?"

"I got a batch of ale that needs to go soon. Two Septims more, and I'll send you off with a skin of ale.

"Deal," David agreed and handed an extra two over. The bartender pocketed the currency, which he thought looked crude in make compared to the coinage of Caesar's Legion. His lunch was put in a sack, and left open for the rest of the meal.

He allowed himself to be lost in thought while he waited. There was a general store in town, but the owner was strongly pro-Legion he had been told by Gerdur, and would probably inform on them once word of Helgen disaster settled on the rest of the community like a radioactive cloud. It was a strange land he was in, and he didn't even understand the battle lines. Ralof could tell him until he turned as blue as his storm cloak, but without a map and some time in country, anything he heard would simply go from one ear through the next. He'd heard though that he could get a map in Whiterun, for almost nothing though.

His mind returned to the present with the emergence of a figure from a room to his right with a wooden tray in her hands. She was a tall, dirty blonde, with a lean form. By the lines on her face, he put her around late thirties, or early forties. When she moved toward him, it was with a grace of a mountain cat.

His sharp nose caught the faint whiff of the cured meat, and his stomach raged. He ignored all else, and focused on the food in front of him.

"Salted beef for you, don't break your teeth." she held out a strip, and dropped it into his waiting bag, and set the rest of the tray on the counter.

The bartender was right behind him with the ale, which was held in a watertight leather sack that may have been built around a Bighorner's bladder.

He thanked them both, and left the bar. As hungry as he was, his sixth sense was screaming almost as loud as his stomach. That sense of coming danger, even when it was a false alarm, had kept him alive far longer than he had a right to live with the sheer number of times he laughed at the face of death.

That, and the last time he disregarded it, he was dug out the Goodsprings Cemetery by a securitron.

As he stepped back out into the bright sunlight, he looked down both ends of the street. David instantly knew why he should run from this pretty village.

In front of another building, he saw two men conversing with a resident. One wore a green robe, and the other was in Legion Crimson.

* * *

 **Flokir**

"Uncle please, keep your voice down." Hadvar tried to calm his uncle, who was horrified at the sight of him. "I'm fine. But we should go inside to talk."

The burly blacksmith was not yet calmed. "What's going on?" Alvor then turned and noticed him for the first time with suspicion. "And who's this?"

"He's a friend. Saved my life, in fact. Come on, I'll explain everything but we need to go inside."

"Okay, okay. Come inside, then." Alvor agreed to Hadvar's request. "Sigrid will get you something to eat, and you can tell me all about it."

He walked towards the door, and held it open for Hadvar, and then himself, before bringing up the rear. Alvor walked over to the stairs for a basement. "Sigrid! We have company!" He shouted to the basement, before taking a seat at the table.

The house itself, looked like a comfortable one. The dinner table was snugly placed to his left and parallel to the downstairs staircase. A double bed covered in furs was to his right, and a hearth crowned with the large stuffed head of a stag was in front of him.

"Hadvar! We've been so worried about you! Come, you two must be hungry. Sit down and I'll get you something to eat." He took his seat, while Flokir and Hadvar followed suit.

Hadvar! We've been so worried about you!" A sweet voice called from the stairs coming up.

When Flokir turned his head, he saw the smith's wife, Sigrid. She had a willowy figure, with brown eyes that sparkled in the candlelight, and a head of dark red hair that went down to her shoulders. It was not a stretch to say that she was the most comely wench he'd seen since he'd fled Riften. She regarded him for a moment.

"Come, you two must be hungry. Sit down and I'll get you something to eat." Had his stomach not cried out then, he would have worried a little more about the stirring of his loins.

"I don't know where to start," Hadvar began his tale. "You know I was assigned to General Tullius's guard. We were stopped in Helgen when we were attacked by...a dragon."

There was silence in the room for a moment before Hadvar's uncle found his words. "A dragon?" His tone was nothing short of disbelief. "That's ridiculous. You aren't drunk, are you boy?"

"Husband," Sigrid scolded him. "Let him tell his story."

"Not much more to tell." Hadvar continued his tale, and Flokir jerked his head back to the table. "The dragon flew over and just wrecked the whole place. Confusion everywhere." Hadvar paused for a moment to gather his words.

"I don't know if anyone else got out alive. I doubt I'd have made it out if not for my friend here." The soldier gestured in his general direction. "I need to get back to Solitude and let them know what's happened. I figured you could help us out. Food, supplies, a place to stay."

"Of course! Any friend of Hadvar's is a friend of mine. I'd be glad to help however I can." Alvor forgot any suspicions he had about Flokir at the request, as he turned to meet his gaze.

"Like I said, I'm glad to help however I can. But I need you help. We need your help. The Jarl needs to know if there's a dragon on the loose. Riverwood is defenseless..."

"You want to send a message to Jarl Balgruuf?" Flokir asked, not liking where this was going one bit.

The blacksmith nodded. "You need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf so he can send whatever soldiers he can. If you do this for me, I'll be in your debt."

Before he was expected to answer, a slender hand appeared with a plate on the end. On the plate, was a hunk of buttered bread and a slice of goat cheese. A bottle of mead in a dark blue bottle was placed at his side, which Flokir took gratefully.

Ordinarily Flokir did not care much for mead, especially if it happened to be Black-Briar Mead. Right now though, he needed a drink, and he would take it like it was the last drink in Skyrim.

"Hadvar, did you really see a dragon? What did it look like? Did it have big teeth?" A little girl suddenly entered the conversation as Sigurd brought Hadvar a plate.

"Hush, child. Don't pester your cousin." The woman admonished the girl gently as she placed a loving hand on her shoulder. Flokir hated to admit it, but he felt a pang of envy at the girl.

"Can you go to Whiterun for us?" Alvor asked him again.

"I'll make my way there." Flokir hoped his answer was good enough. He had already been to Dragonsreach once, and did not want to risk getting locked up again in the castle dungeons while asking the jarl to help someone else he barely knew.

"Well, I'd better get back to work. You two make yourselves at home." Alvor was satisfied, and Flokir tore into the food. the big blacksmith got up and headed for the door as they ate.

They did just that. When they had finished the contents of their plates, Hadvar asked for more food. Sigrid obliged with a bowl of chopped carrots, and lettuce topped with snowberries.

"Listen, I'm going to lay up here for a little while, you can make your own way to Solitude from here. I'd recommend heading to Whiterun and taking a carriage to Solitude."

Flokir nearly choked on his salad and glared at Hadvar. "Do you jape? I almost died today."

"Of course not. Look, I know, today wasn't the best introduction to the Legion, but I hope you'll give us another chance. The Legion could really use someone like you, especially now. And if the rebels have themselves a dragon, General Tullius is the only one who can stop them."

Ulfric Stormcloak calling down dragon? Flokir shook his head. He was no expert on the tales of the dragons, but he did not believe for one moment that they would lower themselves to help anybody, Stormcloak or Legion.

"Somehow, I think Tullius knows about as much we do about where dragon came from." The faith some men put in their leaders was truly astonishing.

"You're probably right, but you can bet he'll be trying to figure it out. This could shift the whole balance of the war. If you want to help stop that dragon, your best bet is to go to Solitude and join up with the Legion."

"I'll think about it," Flokir's reply was sarcastic.

"Sure, I understand. It's not easy to go from being executed by the Legion one day to joining up the next." Hadvar finally spoke some sense. "But I think you'll see that the Legion is Skyrim's only hope for real peace right now." Hadvar took a moment to look him in the eye. "I know you'll make the right choice in the end."

 **Author's Note: There you have it ladies and gentlemen. I know it's been awhile, but this chapter (Ulysses in particular) was a bit difficult for me to write. That and I've been pretty damn busy in the last month with work and a few newly released games.**

 **Let me know what you think of the update, especially Ulysses. His head is not an easy one to get into.**


	7. Running Guns

**Veronica**

The Sun crept up in the East as the train pulled out of Nellis, giving the morning sky many hues of orange. The muddy red rocks of Sunrise Mountain that flanked the small canyon from both sides of the tracks were bathed in brighter red.

Veronica sat on the roof of an old boxcar that was tailored for hauling heavy munitions which brought up the rear of the train. The light and faintly metallic January winds of Nevada nipped at her unassuming brown robes.

It looked like a scene from some old film about vagabonds traveling across old America on freight trains. Or maybe present day in the richer, more established parts of NCR.

At fifteen miles per hour, the lightly armored train swayed ever so slightly along the aged rails that topped recently repaired trackbed as it rounded the bend. The axles of the old rail cars creaked with every movement.

The train itself, was three cars and a diesel engine that had been retooled to run on a Universal Electric fusion engine. Restoring the electro motive reactor, had been one of her recent projects and a fine days work at that.

A gondola probably intended for moving coils was in the front. Behind the engine, was a water carrier and of course, the boxcar that she was on.

At its head, she could see Jack manning a light machine gun mounted on the front end of the gondola, scanning for any hostile animals dumb enough to follow the sound of the engine that worked behind the rusted gondola.

To her left, the tracks merged with the branch to the Gypsum Quarry. Not a hundred feet from the switch, a small tunnel separated the rest of the line from Deathclaw territory. Though they were safe, she felt her right hand, gloved with her power fist clench, and her left hand resting on the 10 mm pistol at her side as it came up.

As the train passed the switch, it seemed to pick up speed. The tracks took on a slight grade as they went down the hill that shielded the base from the perpetual sunrise of the New Vegas Strip.

There was something about the Mojave sky at daybreak. East of New Vegas, it felt almost as if two suns, one from the West, one from the East, would soon shine down on the desert.

Soon, they were at the bottom of the hill, and rapidly closing distance along to the North Side. By an old road, a band of travelers looked up from their morning campfire and stared in awe at the sight of the train. One of them waved, and was rewarded with the sound of the horn.

A few minutes passed, before the train arrived at the destination. The horn sounded twice in quick succession as the train slowed to a halt.

The place of business was the backside of a boarded up strip mall on the trackside. From where she stood, she could see what kind of businesses where advertised. On the sign that once called out to passing motorists was a liquor store, a money lender, a pawn shop and a legal firm that specialized in personal injury. In other words, it was a typical shopping center for the poor of a town that still held on to opulence.

A handful of traders awaited them, with Cass among them as Veronica had anticipated. She was sitting on the stairs to a back entrance, with a bottle of something in hand. Their eyes met, and Veronica felt a smile cut across her cheek. Their dysfunctional family had been estranged for a long time, or least that's what it felt like.

About two months ago, Cass sold Cassidy Caravans for a pittance before discovering a conspiracy against her former business. A caravan war was fought in shadows, that would have broken the NCR's supply lines if not for the revived fortunes of the Happy Trails company who had the resources to fill the temporary void. A company that ironically Cass was a major shareholder of.

The price of Crimson Caravan stock had fallen off the roof, and she had bought her rights back along with a few shares that made others in the company think twice about retribution.

The Van Graffs were a different affair. The only thing that kept the Van Graffs in Freeside alive, was their family in New Reno, who House probably had no desire to deal with. The families treated the strip and Freeside if they were big enough, as a place where violence was bad for their business. Outside the city however, their fortunes foundered at every turn. Caravans where ambushed, and covert weapons deals went bad. She couldn't prove it, but Paladin Hardin had most likely been in that war if any of the "salvage" his cronies brought in to Hidden Valley was an indication.

Veronica slid down a ladder, and hit the cracked asphalt running. "Cass!" she called.

"Veronica," the ginger put the lid on the hooch, and cracked a smile of her own.

She threw her arms around the caravaneer, and squeezed with affection until a wheeze from Cass told her to stop. "Sorry," Veronica apologized sheepishly. It was easy to forget how strong the suit made her to be.

"Can't believe its been two weeks I now." Cass commented on their last meeting. The faint smell of alcohol reached her nose and told her that Cass had been drinking lightly.

"I'd say closer to three weeks, the new year got a bad start for me."

The expression on her face turned somber. "I'm sorry V. I heard about the Followers."

"How are they?" Veronica thought about Julie Farkas and didn't think she would ever be able to look her in the eye and tell her about the massacre in the train yard.

"Better than I figured. You should have seen the service. For a whole hour, you'd think Freeside was as dry as a Mormon."

What service? This was news to her. "Who made it?"

"Well, aside from most of Freeside, Crocker was there if you can believe that. I made it of course, and so did Raul. I saw Arcade with a few his older relatives." Veronica had seen a few of the old timers who treated Arcade as family. They also regarded David as family when he was around.

"David handled most of the funeral arrangements."

"I'm surprised he didn't invite me," Veronica deadpanned.

"Its a good thing he didn't." To her surprise, Cass seemed to share whatever opinion David had. "I'm guessing, you weren't listening to the radio when the NV reporter was on the scene." She thought about the radio and realized that she had been busy for a few days away with a radio only in occasional earshot. Where the Boomers trying to keep her head under a rock?

"I should have been there, to pay my respects." Veronica sniffed as she finished the sentence.

"Do ya even know what a necktie party looks like V?"

"Necktie party?" Veronica wasn't sure where this was heading.

"Angry mob law, they'd have strung you to a streetlight for no other reason than being born underground after that service."

Veronica blanched. "Was it that bad?"

"Yep, it was," the caravaneer nodded. "Put a crowd of angry people with violence dicks out and hard, and see what happens. The only thing that kept them from spilling blood was the lack of people to lash out at once Crocker left for safety."

"Did Hidden Valley, say anything?" She knew David had an unpleasant chat with the elder, but much had been withheld from her and she was tired of it.

Cass shook her head. "Not that I know of, you know'em better than me." A look flashed across her face that suggested she knew more than she let on. Cass was a horrible poker player when she drank. even if she was lightly buzzed.

"I still think those shitheads got what they deserved," Cass continued." If it weren't fer NCR, those highway robbers would be hasslin' every caravan from the Outpost to here."

Before she could react to that statement, Loyal hollered from the cab to open the boxcar and unload the ammo containers.

When Veronica broke off the conversation, and took a moment to study the scene.

By the door, she saw a dark haired, olive skinned trail hand who looked very much like a Gun Runner next to a loaded down brahmin. In the early morning light, she could see lust in the man's eyes and unless she was mistaken, a bulge in his pants. She pretended to ignore it, deciding the man was too thick of head to take a hint.

To her left, she could see Janet completing a deal with another gun runner. By the tanker, a light trailer was brought up to transfer the precious contents.

Veronica stepped up to the heavy boxcar door and undid the locks. The door itself slid open effortlessly (at least for her), and she leaped into the freight car. The ammo containers where moved to the edge with ease, and she got back down to assume the job of a human forklift.

She thought about what Cass said as she moved the crates to ground level one by one. Surprise, the Mojave Brotherhood of Steel had no friends on the outside. Small wonder they had to live in hiding. The NCR as dominionist as they were generally had the sense to leave them alone. That didn't really matter when the Brotherhoods only interactions with outsiders made them glorified raiders in the eye of the NCR.

Veronica took care with the last container which happened to carry a handful of sacks with Ammonium Nitrate labeled in crude black marker.

"You can do your thing now." she cheerfully gestured towards the large ammo containers. The man's eyes were now cautious where they were undressing her a barely a few minutes ago. If the tent in his pants was pitched, it didn't look like it now.

The wiry hand unpacked the boxes from the Brahmin refusing help from the man who had finished his dealings with Janet, and started loading the shipping crates.

It never failed to amaze Veronica just how easy it was to make a man feel insecure.

She turned her attention to the rest of the train. Under the tanker, Jack had just finished fixing a fire hose to its underside. The hose was attached to a tank that stood in the back of the trailer, where the liquid was siphoned into.

Past that, she found Cass conversing with Janet, Cass was entering something in her pipboy that she got out of Vault 11. She then remembered the transmission from David. The coordinates given were at the edge of the Divide. She would have thought nothing of had she not seen a mushroom cloud somewhere across the mountains for Goodsprings and Primm.

Their conversation ended as she walked up with Janet presenting a bottle of whiskey. Veronica took the opening, and decided to ask about the transmission.

"Hey Cass, there's something I'd like to ask you about." She pulled up the message on her pip-boy. Cass studied it and grimaced.

"You too huh?"

* * *

 **David**

He ate his caravan lunch on a rocky hill that overlooked Riverwood, as well as the road from both sides. Between the village and the road flowed the White River as it was known.

It had been a while since he had enjoyed any form of cheese so he started there. After days of ancient MRE's and fresher food that tasted every bit as nasty, this was a real treat. Two quick bites into the cheese he realized just how rich the food was and slowed down to savor the meal.

The bread was next, and then came the meat. Finally, he gobbled down the carrot, and the apple which was easily the juiciest he'd ever tasted.

The whole meal was washed down with the ale skin. The beer though it tasted funny, was no disappointment. He drank nearly half the skin, before returning it to his pack.

David wasted no time in getting back on the road, which was as far as he could tell, a quiet one. As he walked north, he could feel the meal going to work on his system. By the time the bridge to Riverwood was obscured by winding of the road, he noticed his gait was much faster than it ordinarily would have been. Although his stomach was starting to raise hell, he felt pretty good all things considered.

 _'Rich food is one hell of a drug'_ , he decided. Hopefully it would adjust after a few more meals.

Maybe it was the air, or the presence of an unpolluted river that ran to the right of the trail. Probably though it was the nutrients in the food.

After surviving the Divide, this place was Heaven. Even if he couldn't go a week without having to kill enough people to populate a small tribe.

The load on his back was lightweight to the point that he almost felt naked in the absence of a seventy pound pack. In feeling naked, he felt vulnerable.

His only protection, was an officer's blade. As a survival tool, it was well made. As a weapon against other people, it worked if he could get close enough in a fight.

Although it would make him a marked man, David sorely missed his pack. In a world where guns seemed to be a complete unknown, he wondered what it would mean for someone like him to have a monopoly on firearms not to mention understanding of a few sciences that so far were undiscovered by the locals.

He missed the Pip-Boy even more. House had once remarked that Vault-Tec wanted a system capable of mapping things that satellites could not cover, like underground vaults. In addition, Yes-Man's predictive analytical models would keep him one step ahead of everyone else. With the gear he came here with, the world was as good as his sandbox.

 _His sandbox_. The thought was seducing. Even in New Vegas, he was never truly safe from his past. He probably would not have been so invested in the ambitions of House if he wasn't dying with enemies on virtually every point of the compass.

That or he could spend the rest of his life in a cave living as a hunter, gatherer and covert vigilante.

David continued down the road for what he perceived as two hours by the position of the sun, enjoying the rays of what felt like a late summer in Idaho's Handle country. For much of the way, he jogged.

Finally, around what was either five or six, he rounded a bend and stopped to survey the scene ahead. Before him was the plains of Whiterun that Ralof had told him about. By the waters of the White, he could see farmsteads, and beyond them, was the dilapidated walls of the city itself. Beyond them, he could see the buildings that were clearly in better shape. At its center, he saw a great building that stood imposing above the rest like the Sierra Madre standing proud over the ruined casino village.

The serpentine road descended steadily towards the plain. He went down the path jogging almost effortlessly. As he neared the next bend, something made him stop.

Three legionaries and a prisoner in rough spun rags, rounded a corner, and were heading up the hill towards Riverwood.

David looked at the prisoner, and shuddered. Only hours ago that man could have been him.

He assumed that they were taking him to Helgen for execution, or even worse, torture. No doubt the soldiers were unaware of the mornings events.

David stopped and planted his feet on the path. For some reason, he felt honor bound to help the haggard prisoner he knew nothing about. At the same time, he wasn't sure that he dared take on the three with nothing but his sword.

"Out of the way citizen, your presence is interfering with Imperial business."

Something about that statement just rubbed him wrong.

"My presence?" David snorted. "I'm not very good at subtle speak, so the mental health geniuses say. If you're here for me, save me your 'true to legion' nonsense and we'll skip to the fight for our scalps."

The uniformed men exchanged looks, and David realized that he'd let on too much. ' _well shit_ ,' it was too late back out.

"Never mind, you're coming with us for questioning." The one at the forefront gestured to the one at the rear to flank him. That they knew nothing about him was obvious, but they knew he was hiding something.

"That wouldn't be Helgen would it?" David asked buying time.

"Maybe it is," responded the leader.

"Well, I'm not going back there..."

In a quick fluid motion, he drew his steel and moved in swunging a wide arc with the tip cutting across his face and through his nose. The man's sword had not yet cleared leather courtesy of the element of surprise, and David seized the blade with his left, while the owner's grip on the handle faltered.

The next man rushed him with his weapon drawn. David parried the swing with the sword in his right and took a step back. His opponent had not seen the other sword and didn't have the time to parry a thrust to his wrist.

The Legionnaire dropped his sword clutching a severed artery, which gave David enough time to dodge the attack of the third who came at him with a wicked chop.

The failed attack left him wide open, and David tripped him over his own momentum. The man tumbled to ground and tried to face him, but never had the chance.

David slid both swords through the gap, between his torso armor and his leather helmet. With all his strength, he rammed them through flesh, tissue, and bone, killing him instantly.

David looked around for the rest of his enemies, but it was over as fast as it had began. The first one was down, and second one just sat there trying to stop the bleeding. The prisoner had taken his sword, and despite his bindings had no trouble slitting his throat while ignoring his pleas for mercy.

The prisoner was aware of his stare, and took only a moment to clean the blade on the hem of the uniform, as he writhed his last couple minutes of life in agony.

"Thank you for your help stranger, I could use some help with my bindings."

David walked over to him, and cut the bindings.

"So how did you end up in a bind?"

"I spied for the Stormcloaks. You can see I was not a very good one." The blonde man with the haggard beard chuckled. "And you?"

"Just someone with a bone to pick with the Legion."

"Bone to pick?" the man looked at him uncomprehending.

"Figure of speech where I come," David explained. "Means we've got problems."

"Oh, I see."

"I'll be heading for Windhelm now, I'll probably do better as a soldier than a spy." The bearded Stormcloak let on his plans. "You should come too if hate the Legion that much."

"Maybe later," replied David. "I got business in Whiterun to take care of."

The man nodded and then began going through the pockets of the dead soldiers in search of loot.

David for his part hurried down the hill. Once the scene was maybe half a mile behind him, he took a swig of the ale, and then another. Damn it, he needed a drink, a real drink right now. He continued his trek to Whiterun as he sang wearily.

 _I rode out of Kansas City going south to Mexico_

 _I was running, dodging danger, left the girl loved so_

 _Far behind lay Kansas City and the past that I had earned_

 _Twenty killings from my six gun marked the lessons I had learned_

 _Many times I sold my fast gun for a place to lay my head_

 _'Till the nights began to haunt my by the men I left dead_

 _Couldn't stand it any longer with this life that I'd begun_

 _So I said goodbye to Jeannie and became a running gun_

He broke off as he neared the bottom of the hill, where the lush forest, gave way to Tundra plains. The road intersected with a stone bridge ahead and another to that was one right turn away.

Between them was a road sign, with six different names carved into the wood and pointing in different directions. At the top Whiterun was a left turn as well as a place named Solitude. A right turn promised to lead him to Windhelm, the Stormcloak's capital or to Riften that he'd mention of, among other places.

David took the road to his left, which would take him to the city gates. Farms and what was advertised as a Meadery hugged the road. Mead as he recalled, was a drink that was popular in the Dakotas. In more recent times it had gained widespread acceptance with the Northern Dominions.

The ingredients for mead as far as he knew happened to be plentiful in that motley blend of free towns, nepotist kingdoms and various enclaves of crazy that stretched between Saddle City in the far North of the Alberta plains to the edge of the Tundra in the South.

Past a few farms, he rounded a bend in the road where he caught sight of a group of warriors attacking some strange creature that looked like on a small farm next to the road.

He got closer, and leaned against a stone fence pausing to watch. The closest thing it resembled was a super mutant. He had never seen a mutie so light skinned or with hair though, so it was still a distant comparison at best.

A few fighters with various melee weapons tried to hem the thing in, carefully measuring their attacks at its legs while avoiding the log that it brandished as a club, and kept swinging at them.

Even as he watched, he heard a loud battle cry from behind the giant and caught sight of an almost scantily clad woman skirting its reach in hopes of hamstringing it from behind.

Her moves were elegant and catlike, her long and fiery red hair swayed hypnotically. The giant tried to hit her, when she stepped in range to feint an attack, but it might as well have tried hacking the wings from a bloatfly on jet.

She dodged a hit from the club, and weaved in for a blow with her sword which she held with both hands. He didn't know how, but the mutie managed to avoid the blow. The woman's blade sliced into thin air missing the target and barely had enough time to dive out of the path of the giant's club. She hit the ground with a roll, and came up running.

The diversion was all her friends needed. A dark haired man in heavy armor rushed in with a sword nearly as tall as himself and risked everything to thrust the two hander into its underbelly.

The not super mutant lost control of literally everything as blood and shit poured out of the opening. It dropped the club, and collapsed over some farmers harvest clutching torn bowels.

The man with the large sword began cleaning it, while a woman dressed in tanned hides went to work on the creature. The redhead noticed him and approached the fence.

"All taken care of, no thanks to you." The redhead spoke brusquely.

 _Good lord above_ , David rolled his eyes. tribal women were a pain in the ass no matter were he was.

"Wasn't my fight. Besides, you don't look like you need help."

"No it was not," she conceded. "But a true Nord, would relish the opportunity to take on a giant."

"I don't have anything to prove, and for my knowledge of the area I could have interrupted some ritual that would make you very angry."

A nervous laugh came from one of the fighters. It was a sound that was cut off by the sharp glare of the red head in the revealing garb.

"An outsider, eh? Never heard of the Companions? An order of warriors. We are brothers and sisters in honor. And we show up to solve problems if the coin is good enough."

"So what kind of problems do a bunch of killers bound in honor solve?" David knew he should not bait them, but he couldn't resist asking. Their reactions spoke volumes about their character. The retort, prompted the pretty one to take a step closer and put a finger on David's chest.

"The kind of problems that plague the honest and law-abiding. Sometimes its a bounty, other times its a monster on the loose. Every now and then we rescue a hostage. We do not commit something so crass as murder for hire, if that's what you're suggesting. We are the Companions. Warriors without equal and if you were not new in these parts, your words would be taken as insult worthy of an answer, but we are done here."

"I see now, makes sense." David eased his body language to show he meant no offense. She turned away and started down the road. He could not help but stare for a moment. Her hourglass figure accentuated a pronounced sway in her hips. Her hair which was colored much like his, swayed in a gentle breeze that was also spreading the stench of death and loosened bowels.

"You have the look of a warrior, you know. You should head over to Jorrvaskr, be a companion." The dark haired one spoke up as if noticing him for the first time.

"Your-vaskur, you say?"

"That's right. If you're looking for work, find Kodlak Whitemane. Nobody can read a man like he can."

"Keep that in mind," David replied. "For now though, I got a favor to return."

David started down the road behind Farkus. He could use some eating money after delivering a message to the "jarl," as the leader of the city was known.

Further down the road, where ruined stonework was covered in moss, another road sign pointed him in the direction of the gates. Along the road, he could see what passed for the outskirts of the fortified city. A motley collection of farmhouses, some earthwork defenses and a few tents dotted the landscape outside the walls.

He also saw a stable and took a moment to ogle the horses before moving on. It had been years since he had ridden a horse. After seeing the jarl, he'd have to see what a horse was worth in these parts.

At the edge of the gate, he got a closer look at the camp. It looked every bit a trade caravaneer's camp. A second look at the camp revealed that something was off. He could have sworn the traders had tails. Looking closer, he realized that they were in fact "cat people."

David stopped staring at the camp, and made a beeline for the inner walls. He'd had enough weirdness for one day. Still better than the lizard people from the Divide, of course.

He passed a drainage that took water outside the city, and ultimately fed into the White River.

 _'White Run, is that where the name came from,'_ he wondered. Up the hill, David crossed a drawbridge, which unlike the rest of the walls seemed well maintained.

Finally, he came to a third gate with a massive set of doors. Two guards stood outside.

"Halt," one of them called out in a voice distorted by a silly helmet that words failed him to describe. "The city is closed with the dragons about."

"And what of those who don't have a fortress to hide behind?" What about Riverwood?" David pleaded with the guard. From what it looked like, the hysteria had beat him to Whiterun.

The city was now withdrawn from the outside world in panic, like New Jerusalem from the tales of its exiles and rejects. Hopefully Whiterun would not be overrun with snobby fanatics.

"You from Riverwood?" The guard asked.

"I am, and they call for aid."

The guard looked to his peer for a moment, "Watch the gate will you."

He then turned back to face David.

"Follow me"

The opened the gate wide enough for both of them to slip through. Just like that, he was in Whiterun.

He studied the city for a moment, deciding it was more spread out than he figured a walled city would be. His attention shifted to a guardhouse on his left. The guard pounded the door.

"Ragnar, we have someone from Riverwood. The jarl will want to see them."

 **AN: Sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy the [slightly] longer chapter. Featured song is "Running Gun" by Marty Robbins.**


	8. Notice

**Ulysses**

The sun was low in the sky, when he returned to the camp with the last load of troll meat on the two pole sled he fashioned for the job, with the remains of a hunter's snare which had caught the troll, before it died.

The tribe at large was still busy working on the previous cuts, stripping the remains of the many eyed, bear like creature. The Orcs as they were known, were a frugal and resourceful people. Not one part of the animal would go to waste, he could tell.

The priestess needed its fat for the ritual. Everyone else needed the abundant meat of the creature. The furs would make new clothes, and tools would be fashioned out of the heavy bones that remained.

He let the sled down, and braced it against a well that marked the center of the open yard. When he was done, he leaned against the wall of the longhouse to rest for a moment.

From where he stood, he watched the camp buzz with activity after leaving the contents of the sled to the green skinned tribals. They who had grown weak from a lack of food drew strength at its sight, and raced to relieve the sled of its load.

Soon enough the priestess walked by.

"Should be enough there," Ulysses spoke low to to Atub, who merely nodded.

"It is, and thank you stranger," stated the orc shaman. "Now you must come with me, you've become part of this. You must be present at the ritual." She turned and made for him to follow.

He did just that. She opened the door to the longhouse and slid through the doorway. Behind her, Ulysses deftly caught the door as it swung outwards and followed her into the center room.

Against the wall in front of him, was a hearth that jutted into the room in a half circle. By its base, a warrior sat facing the fire. He was clad head to toe in heavy plate armor that was colored a sickly green. Its rough craftsmanship reminded him vaguely of the many armor armor sets the marked men wrought in an effort to preserve their identity.

He stood, and turned to face them. Under the baggy eyes of the armored chief was a scowl meant for him.

"It is time Yamarz," Atub braced for his rebuke.

The orc chief shook his head. "You bring an outsider here, and now insist that I call on Malacath for help, when he has clearly forsaken me? You try my patience Atub."

"Doing nothing will not grant relief from his curse. We must try."

"Fine," the word came out in a growl. "Let's get this over with." Though the chief didn't trust him, he clearly felt that he was out of options.

They left the longhouse following Atub's lead. She brought them to the large stone in the courtyard.

It was an altar beyond doubt. On the smooth, flat stone, the arms and armor of some warrior was laid. On one end, a post beside the rocks held a skull with a large rack of antlers.

Atub placed the fat of the troll and what looked to be a heart onto the altar.

"Lord Malacath, we beseech you," she cried out in her gritty voice. "Please aid us in our time of need. We beg of you to lift this curse that you have placed on us."

"Why are we bothering with this," the orc chief whined at Atub.

Before he could reply, an angry voice came from nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

" **You pathetic weakling!"**

"what's that?" Asked the chief.

"Malacath has heard my pleas," Explained Atub. "He speaks to us."

" **You dare summon me Yamarz?"**

"What?" This chief had a talent for ignoring that which he would rather not hear.

" **You don't deserve to call yourself an orc. You're weak, small, and** **most** **of** **all, an** **Embarrassment! You let giants, GIANTS overrun my shrine. Bring me their leader's club as an offering, and I might consider lifting this curse."**

The angry voice died down, and silence filled the void for a moment.

"Then so it will be," Atub spoke for the chief. Across the altar, she addressed Yamarz. "Malacath has spoken. Your path is clear."

"Very well," Yamarz conceded. "You, outsider, come here. I want a word."

He shot a glance at the black robed priestess. Atub had simply turned away with the end of the audience.

"Look at the mess you have brought! "

"Was a mess when I came here." Ulysses spoke in a low growl and made eye contact with Yamarz.

The proud chief, scowled at him like an angry child. "This is all your fault you know. I'm stuck fighting a giant thanks to you. You are going to help me. You," he pointed at Ulysses, "are coming with me in the morning. You will make sure that I don't have any trouble reaching that giant."

Ulysses crossed his arms and took a step forward. He kept his eyes on Yamarz.

The false bravado began to crack. "Don't worry, I'll make it worth your while." He raised his hands until they were at height with his shoulders.

Ulysses snorted in contempt. "Seen the warriors here. Not half as weak as they look, and eager to prove themselves. This is their fight. Their curse."

"You are in this deeper than they are," replied the orc.

He was beginning to understand the chief's motives and the more he understood, the more he dispised the green man before him.

For chiefs of many tribes, the greatest threats were from within.

* * *

 **Flokir**

He entered the Riverwood Trader to find the owners in an argument.

"Well one of us has to do something!" The speaker was a pretty dark haired lass whose appearance did not fit in with the sleepy village.

With a plain counter and moderately stocked shelves behind it, the store itself looked like any other village dry goods store.

"I have, and we are done talking about this." A fair skinned imperial countered her from behind the store counter. Flokir knew who to talk to.

The woman was not satisfied with his answer. "Well what have you done then, huh? Let's hear it!"

"I said no!" Lucan Valerius lost his patience and slammed his fist on the birch surface of the counter. "No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!"

At that moment, he noticed the visitor. "Oh, a customer. Sorry you had to hear that."

Flokir allowed a slight smile, and held up the notice he found posted on the board that stood outside The Sleeping Giant."No need to worry, I'm here about the notice."

The trader's eyes lit up at the mention of the village notice board, and shot the woman a look of smug satisfaction. "If you can get the claw get, I have some coin coming in from my next shipment. It's yours if you can bring it back."

"You might say I have a talent for recovering stolen goods," he tried to keep his expression neutral.

Though his time in the guild had left him with many talents, it would not do to boast of them. His involvement did not end on the best of terms and less so now that Maven Black-Briar was out to get him.

"So this is your plan, Lucan?"

"Yes," Lucan nodded. "So now you don't have to go, do you?"

She looked him over for a moment before answering. "Oh really? Well I think your new helper here needs a guide."

For a moment, the man's eyes bulged as wide as septims. "Wh- no... I... Oh, by the Eight, fine." Lucan bowed his head and heaved a sigh. "But only to the edge of town!"

 _Edge of town,_ Flokir furrowed his eyebrows. "It sounds almost as if you know where the claw is."

"I made some inquiries at the Sleeping Giant, so I have an idea." Lucan shrugged.

The woman moved for the door and motioned for him to follow. Once outside, she gave him more to go on.

"We have to go through town and across the bridge to get to Bleak Falls Barrow. You can see it from here, though. The mountain just over the buildings."

"Bandits now, and did you say we?" Flokir purred. She was a comely wench, and he wouldn't mind a quiet rut with her sometime after the job.

Blood rushed to her face, and colored her cheeks a light rosy pink. "Well, I'll get you through town, you don't look like you're from around here."

 _And maybe ward off some unwanted attention_ , he didn't say. "Neither are you," Flokir decided to probe her as they walked down the road past the smithy and the inn.

"I came here from Skingrad over in the Imperial Province, to work with my brother Lucan. It got bad back in Cyrodil." Her voice then went from cheerful to bitter. "The war with the Thalmor ruined everything. I came to Skyrim looking for a better life. So what did I get? Another war. I just want to find a good husband, and start a family of my own."

Flokir who had been indulging the clingy woman suddenly felt uncomfortable next to her. "What should I know about Bleak Falls?" Flokir changed the subject.

"Those old crypts are filled with nothing but traps, trolls, and who knows what else. Those thieves must be mad, hiding out there."

Flokir shrugged. "Crypts do tend to be out of the way of prying eyes."

"I wonder why they only stole Lucan's golden claw. I mean, we have plenty of things in the shop that are worth just as much coin."

 _A Claw, and a barrow?_ Flokir considered the connection that was starting to make sense.

"How did Lucan come across the claw?" Flokir asked now that he thought about it. There were a few stories that he had heard ever since his time in Honorhall about claws that could open up ancient Nordic Tombs where ancient and powerful treasures were guarded by cursed garrisons of Draugr.

Camila was silent for a moment, as if lost in thought. "He found the claw about a year after he opened the store. He never quite explained where he got it. He's a tricky one."

"I suppose this is it for you?" Flokir questioned her as they neared the stone bridge.

She nodded. "This is the bridge out of town. The path up the mountain to the northwest leads to Bleak Falls Barrow. I guess I should get back to my brother. He'll throw a fit if I take too long. Such a child..."

"Goodbye then," he nodded on cue.

"Farewell," she replied with a voice that sounded only a little wistful.

Flokir did not look back when he crossed the bridge. For some reason, his eyes were on the road sign that stood at edge of the bridge before the fork in the road ahead.

On the left, was an old trail that would climb the mountain on which Bleak Falls was perched. On the right, was Whiterun only hours away.

Hadvar had asked Flokir to petition Jarl Balgraaf for aid sometime tomorrow. He could not have known that the request was somewhat more reasonable than joining the legion.

The last time he had been in Whiterun, the guards brought him to Dragonsreach in chains. Jarl Baalgruf the Greater had sentenced him to spend two turns of the moon in the dungeon.

Without hesitation, Flokir took the path on his left.

A visit to Whiterun really would not matter. After combing the notice board for jobs, he spent some time in the village inn around mid afternoon. Over a mug of cheap ale, he listened to the talk of the village. A handful of survivors from Helgen came and told their stories in between sobs to all who would hear.

Flokir heard the stories with interest. Most of the inhabitants as it happened, survived the return of dragons.

Tullius had survived Helgen with the bulk of his force and hid in some glen west of Helgen. He stayed long enough for his enterprising scouts to rescue the pockets of survivors left to fend for themselves. When they reported in, only then did Tullius lead his ragged host west for Falkreath.

Ulfric Stormcloak had also escaped according to other rumors which were probably true. Where he was, none could say, but with the Imperial army command in chaos, he would probably return to Windhelm without hindrance.

To his relief, only the survivors with ties to Whiterun Hold and the unaware like Hadvar, had chosen to take this path.

He had also learned that another survivor of Helgen had already made way to Whiterun and stood a good chance of sending word by nightfall.

Soon the undefended village would be swarming with Balgruuf's sworn bannermen and their levies as early as tomorrow. Though they had no chance of fending off the dragon who destroyed Helgen, no jarl in Skyrim would leave their towns and villages undefended. Especially now, with a full scale rebellion against the Emperor's authority now inevitable.

 _Life had taken a turn for the better_ , Flokir decided with a grim smile. The war would bring chaos and with chaos would come opportunity.

He would disappear like a hunted animal in a rainstorm. He would take a new name, and with the coin from a few lucrative contracts, he would make a new life for himself in Markarth. Though he had never been there before, its reputation preceded it.

Flokir followed the ancient road that went up Bleak Mountain. The sun was still high enough that he could see fairly fresh tracks along the dirt. The impressions were made by hide shoes, the poorly crafted kind that had to be replaced at least once every moon's turn. It was clear that the road itself was seldom traveled by anyone but bandits.

Flokir felt unconcerned though. The chances of meeting a bandit this far from camp at dusk was none too high. Still he was just a little more alert for any signs of life as he climbed the winding road.

The sun was setting over the mountain when he came upon an ancient stone tower. From behind a pile of stones beside a road he observed the state of the tower.

The watch tower had been there for hundreds if not thousands of years. The merciless winds of Skyrim had eroded the stone walls until it looked smooth as a maiden's skin. Its entrance from the road was marked by a stone bridge that arched over a gully.

Facing the rocky mountainside, he could see a fairly new but, poorly made staircase built with fresh timbers linking the higher floors with the ground. Though he could not see anyone, Flokir knew a bandit hideout hideout when he saw one. They often camped in places like this.

He surveyed the trail from where he was to the bridge that marked the tower's entrance. Between the rock formations and the pine trees, it had enough cover for him to go halfway to the bridge without being spotted. After that, he would be be in the open and could close the distance before anyone could so much as nock an arrow.

A light breeze blew to the North. With it, he could smell something meaty being cooked from within the tower.

With luck, their minds would be on food and not on the approach.

He drew a short sword that he had looted from Helgen, and moved along his cover, with his upper body leaning forward and his steps slow and calculated. At the edge of his cover, he took a deep breath before breaking into a run.

Flokir sprinted to the front entrance of the tower, and crossed the bridge before before anyone was the wiser.

At the base of the tower, he saw the first one busy with the cooking spit. From the spit hung a bowl filled with what looked to be goat roast. A metal cauldron below the spit held burning charcoal.

The cook's back was turned, and he did not even see the thrust that killed him. His body shuddered, and he tried to scream, but could not find the energy to do so.

Instead, he collapsed and fell beside the cauldron, with a thump.

Flokir strained his ears to see if he could hear noises above him, whist he climbed the staircase of hewn stone. He was not disappointed.

"Wizards... now that's power.. bet they got that secret magic, turn wood into gold. Yeah, wish I could turn wood into gold."

Flokir suppressed a chuckle. Once he had thought the same thing, but that was before he had been to Winterhold.

He had attended a semester at the College, the spring before last as part of a job for the guild. Flokir had hoped once that if he could turn worthless things into gold, he would not need to depend on the guild and their sponsors.

After he had barely passed the Novice exams for the school of alteration, his enthusiasm had dampened somewhat. Though he did not in truth consider himself a skilled mage, he left the College with novice level training in the Restoration, Destruction and Alteration school of magic to show for five months of rigorous schooling.

He climbed the rickety stairs as quiet as he could, but as he reached the top, a board creaked.

"What was that?"

Flokir knew he had been detected, and rounded the corner into view of two bandits. With his free hand, he unleashed a quick, wild stream of frost hoping to slow his opponents.

The attack was successful, and Flokir drove his steel through the gullet of the first before he could could grab the ax on his hip.

"Fucking wizard," the other man screamed, as he drew his his sword. It was an ugly old thing covered in rust that barely looked strong enough to cut butter, let alone Nordic flesh. He charged with the rusted iron blade leveled low for Flokir's bowels.

Flokir stepped up to meet him, and parried the dull weapon with ease. The man starred at him in horror, unable to move his sword in time for Flokir to swing his sword in an arc that included his exposed gullet.

The Legion steel parted the skin on his throat and blood gushed out the opening. The swordsman dropped his weapon, and clutched his throat. Flokir stood back and watched him suffer for a moment trying in vain to breathe, before closing in with his sword to finish the job with a thrust through the heart.

Before sheathing the blade, he removed a hide shoe from one of them, and wiped it clean of blood. After taking a few moments to collect himself, he began looting the corpses of the fallen.

Between the three, he collected a paltry thirty five septims before dumping their bodies from the tower. Aside from that and some light food stores, they had nothing of interest.

He decided to help himself to the goat roast that was cooking below and ate in view of the road to Bleak Falls Barrow. The cooking of the meat was uneven due to an unforeseen interruption, but good nonetheless.

As the evening sky grew dark, he decided to call it a day here.

* * *

 **Veronica**

They were nearing Freeside's East Gate marching ahead of the caravan teamsters when Veronica asked the question on her mind.

"What would I find there?"

Cass took a moment to chew on the question. Upon closer inspection, the coordinates given to Cass were different from the ones she had received. Those had pointed to somewhere outside of Goodsprings. "Could be anything. He was always hiding something."

"No shit Cass," Veronica snorted.

The caravaneer didn't respond, and was looking elsewhere. It took Veronica a moment to register that she was focused on the entrance to the Crimson Caravan compound as they passed by.

After long stare, she turned back to the conversation. "Look, he's probably just trying to protect you," answered Cass.

"I can take care of myself thank you very much," retorted Veronica.

Cass turned back to face her. "That's what I mean V, protection from yourself."

Somehow, Veronica didn't buy that. She said as much to Cass.

"Wish I could say, but I can't," she shrugged. "Maybe it's guilt."

"David is House's stooge," seethed Veronica. "He's manipulated all of us into helping that reclusive creep maintain power."

"Cut it out Veronica, will you. Law is coming to the Mojave V, and if the Brotherhood has a problem with it, then tough shit. Did you think NCR would be nicer to you're people than House?"

 _Was this the friend she remembered?_ Veronica could not help but wonder. "Since when did you become so concerned with order Cass? Was it when you made your fortune?"

Her flushed cheeks became a shade redder. "It became my problem the Van Graffs turned my hands to ash! We can't live in anarchy now with California and Arizona free to use the Mojave as their own sandbox."

She had gone too far, and she knew it.

"I'm sorry Cass," she let out a deep breath. "Its just that I was too trusting. I didn't listen to the radio much, but I heard the Rangers are snooping around Hidden Valley. Pretty sure it happened well after that service in Freeside. One of us told the NCR, but I know it wasn't you. It had to be David."

"That would be just like him," Cass remarked dryly. "Always trying to be discrete when he yells 'fuck you'."

They approached the gate, and a small clique of Kings and other capless toughs made way for them and the caravans behind them. Beyond the gate they were flanked by the Old Mormon Fort on their left.

"Meaning hard to read?" She ventured.

To her surprise, Cass let out a bark of laughter.

"When I found out that McLafferty hired the Van Graffs to kill my people, I wanted to destroy them and stamp the Cassidy brand on their corpses."

"So why didn't you?" Veronica knew most of the story, but not all of it.

"I didn't know it at the time, but David wanted no dealings with either. He demanded that we get evidence before starting a caravan war."

"How did you get it?"

"He never told me how he came upon the documents, but we had evidence all along really." Cass continued her story. "Neither the Van Graffs or Crimson Caravan bothered to hide their dead, or even strip them of anything that could be used to identify them. David wasn't satisfied."

"He got them by himself?" This story was getting strange.

Cass shrugged. "I didn't feel we needed anything more so when I refused, he begged me for one night to get more evidence. I agreed of course, and spent the night in the gilded cage. He had what he promised next morning."

Veronica nodded, "what happened next."

"Turns out he had plans of his own, and told me then and there that the securitrons would not allow me to leave the strip."

"Whoa," Veronica tried to clarify what she had just heard. "You mean he actually threatened you?" Did anyone else know about this?

"Not at first. He obviously hoped I would be on board with his ideas."

She raised an eyebrow. "Which were?"

"He didn't want to deal with them directly. He hoped to drive those murderers to ruin. He planned to gut the Caravan's shareholders, and undercut the Van Graff's influence without getting his hands dirty."

"And then their caravans started disappearing." Veronica quickly connected the dots.

"It was a good idea looking back," Cass remarked with a tone of grudging praise. "Even David's terrified of the New Reno families."

That was news to Veronica. Until now, she had believed that House was the one responsible for keeping New Vegas a violence free zone in the trade war that followed the revelations. Revelations of course, that left her in disbelief.

David Kelly had enemies far more dangerous and much closer than a New Reno crime syndicate and NCR merchant company. Enemies he often faced head on with extreme prejudice.

 _What does he really fear?_ She almost asked. Instead she chose to hear the rest of the story.

"So what did you do?"

"I went drinking and dicing up and down the strip for the next two days and nights." She recounted her story with not one hint of shame. "Then something happened. I got in this poker game with some Happy Trails big shot from Sac-Town who was about as drunk as I was. After a few hours of cards, I found myself holding a quarter of his company."

Despite herself it was Veronica's turn to laugh. "A poker game, really?"

"That's right," Cass flashed a grin. "As soon as I sobered up, I was the new head of the New Vegas branch. David staked a caravan for me and I took it to Zion. I got back a couple weeks ago."

"You're not angry at him?" She was astonished.

"I am," the caravaneer admitted. "I'm also smart enough to let it go. Besides V, he cares about you, but he'd also break your legs if he thought you were going to jump off Hoover Dam."

She crossed her arms "That's very caring of him."

"Miss Cassidy!" A man in a cruiser outfit called her over.

The caravaneer, turned to look at the man and grimaced. "God, I miss working for myself."

She turned back to face Veronica. "Looks like I'll be busy for a few hours. You should go talk to Arcade, he's been asking about you lately."

* * *

 **Author's Note: Sorry I haven't been on the ball lately, things in RL are pretty busy and show no sign of slowing down.**

 **Also, the incorporation of notice boards is inspired by a mod I found, which in turn takes inspiration from the Witcher franchise. Expect the occasional nod to mods and other games.**


	9. A Dragon's Reach

**David**

He entered Whiterun as a single guard in weathered yellow held one of the doors open for him to slip through. The man nodded to him, and closed the gate.

"You Ragnar?" Asked David.

"I am, you from Riverwood?"

"That depends on who you let in, I guess. Would your jarl be more interested in meeting a witness to happened this morning in Helgen, or a courier from Riverwood."

"Hard for me to say, but he will hear you all the same, I'm sure."

"Really now?" David asked, not entirely sure of what to think about the lock down that was enforced on non-residents. "Does he expect the dragon to come on foot, and break through the gate rather than fly over the wall?" He gestured at the heavy wooden doors behind him.

"Why don't you ask Jarl Balgraaf?" Ragnar shrugged. "Well see him soon."

"Sounds good, let's go."

With that they started up the rough cobblestone road that was the town's main drag.

It was late in the evening, and fires burned bright along the road in anticipation of sunset, its late summer sky now a beautiful dim orange. The buildings along side the road held a strong element of charm that he rarely found in his travels. Where the buildings in Helgen and Riverwood, were simple, here the ornate wooden structures seemed built to last.

What really interested him, was the planning of this town. The buildings were well spaced in a way that gave no indication that he was now in a walled city. That really stood out.

Whether it was an old factory, an easy to defend collection of city blocks, a stadium, or even an old prison like the Lodge off the windy 90, virtually every walled town he had visited with a few notable exceptions had a premium on safe space.

He could count on such places to be stuffed on the inside with people both the rich and poor who considered themselves privileged to wallow in the filthy, disease ridden conditions in exchange for life within a fortified community.

A few steps down the road his focus shifted to the first person to catch his eye, and he nearly stopped in his tracks. A man with blond hair braided in local fashion wore the crimson and brown of the legion. He was beside the street, making conversation with a woman caked in grime and having the unmistakable appearance of a metal worker.

David quickly recovered his wits and listened to the conversation taking care not to show too much interest.

"We'll pay whatever it takes, but we must have more swords for the Legion," said the blond legionary in a deep voice.

The woman was not convinced,a! he could tell. "I can't fill an order that size on my own, why don't you just shallow that stubborn pride of yours and ask Eorlund Grey-Mane for help?"

The quartermaster or whatever he was, scoffed in disbelief as they walked past. "I would sooner bend the knee to Ulfric Stormcloak. Besides, Grey-Mane and his ilk would never make steel for the Legion."

 _Grey-Mane? Related to White-Mane by any chance,_ David wondered.

"Fine, have it your way." The metal smith conceded. "I'll take the job, but don't expect a miracle."

"Don't like the legion much do you?" Ragnar asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

"Do you?" David wasn't sure where the allegiance of this town was, but it sounded as if it were split down the middle.

"Hmph," snorted Ragnar from behind his helmet. "The Empire or the Stormcloaks. Not sure which one is the lesser evil to tell you the truth. The Stormcloaks are nothing with their leaders, though and the Legion has them now. At least the war will end before it starts."

David tried in vain to choke back laughter. The guard merely stared at him, his face left unreadable by the mask.

"How much do you about Helgen?"

"Nothing really," replied Ragnar. "We heard the dragon this morning, and a few witnesses swear it came from the South, but passed Riverwood by."

David nodded. "How did you know about Ulfric's capture?"

"Some loud mouthed praefect from the legion came yesterday morning with the news. Said they got him at Darkwater Pass, just as he was returning to Eastmarch."

"How did the jarl take it?"

Ragnar was silent for a moment. "I hear he was relieved."

"Relieved?" _That didn't sound good._

"It's no secret that the two have been rivals since childhood, I imagine that he was sick of dealing with Jarl Ulfric."

"Can't wait to see how he takes the news then."

The road opened to form a roundabout. By the fringe of the street, men, women and children lounged about the marketplace populated with empty stalls whose vendors had already packed up for the day. The sight of it, was something he needed a moment to admire.

"Come on friend," Ragnar broke him out of the trance he had fallen into. "Dragonsreach is this way."

He followed Ragnar to a stairwell on the left to what he assumed was the uptown of Whiterun. After climbing the steps, they walked around a huge tree that still stood proudly in the middle of an intersection despite its clear age. The tree had formed the basis for a park within the intersection that was as charming as it was tiny. Pine benches, and gardens lined both sides of the road sheltered by a great circular awning. Around it, a system of canals, carried water almost knee deep to the cities lower levels.

The houses and buildings up here, were somewhat larger than those of the lower level, with many looking to be at least two stories tall.

As they walked around the tree he took in some new sights. The first thing he noticed was a single building on a hill that looked almost as if it were a wooden ship capsized on dry land as someone's home from where he stood.

It didn't hold his attention for long, and his focus shifted to a stone statue nearby of a man in armor and a blade held with both hands. His head was adorned with an ornate wing-crested helmet head, and a long cloak trailed down his back. Beneath him, a dying snake laying at his feet fangs barred and pinned down by a boot over its neck.

In front of the statue stood a priest garbed in a yellow hooded robe that obscured the sight of his face. The priest's voice rang with a powerful cadence as he delivered his sermon.

"Terrible and powerful Talos!" the priest bellowed. "Your unworthy servants, give praise! For only through your grace and benevolence may we truly reach enlightenment! And deserve our praise you do, for we are one! Ere you ascended and the Eight became Nine, you walked among us, great Talos, not as god, but as man!"

"Brave fool," muttered the guard from under his helmet.

"Who's he?" David wondered what the big deal was.

"That's Heimskr, no amount of arrests will stop him from preaching." Ragnar replied.

"How's that?" David asked.

"Watch your step; wouldn't want to fall here," by the tone of the guards voice, he was not inclined to talk about it.

The path ahead him was a tall set of stairs flanked by pools of water, that led all the way to the summit of the city. At the top of that hill loomed the immense figure of what could only be the jarl's residence.

The castle inspired a sense of awe within the former courier. He'd seen many wooden buildings, but never once had he laid eyes on one even half its size.

David followed Ragnar up the numerous steps, feeling the chilly breezes from the nearby mountains blow past him. Before long they had made it to the top, where they were greeted with a wooden bridge that felt like a front porch more than anything. At it's end, two tall wooden doors marked the castle entrance that a single man in metal armor and brownish yellow cloth that marked him as a city watchman.

As they crossed the bridge, he contemplated the state of the castle. To his surprise, the castle was rather old. Though it had aged well, he could still find signs of natural wear and tear on the thick wooden beams and arches that supported the ceiling.

"Can I help you?" asked the guard posted right before the doors to the stronghold

"He needs to speak to the jarl," Ragnar spoke to the guard at the door, and gestured to David. "About Riverwood."

The watchman looked him over for a moment, probably wondering if he was worth allowing inside.

"Very well. You may go inside," the man grunted.

"This is where I go back to the gate. Now do what you came to."

"I will. Be sure to fill you in on the latest gossip next time we meet." David thanked the man, and watched him march back over the bridge and disappear down the adjacent stairway.

David turned back to the huge doors, as the guard opened them for him. When they shut behind him, he paused to survey the hall before him.

He had thought that the old building would smell musty and at least show some signs of decay as he had seen outside. Instead, the old castle showed few indications of age within, and was lovingly maintained in a manner only seen in places like the strip.

In front of him was yet another damned flight of stairs, flanked by fire pots. Beyond, he could make out two banquet tables and a fire pit.

As he trod up the stairs, he caught sight of the Jarl himself seated leisurely on a wooden throne, deep in conversation with someone.

As he approached, a tall woman in boiled leather emerged from the shadows to the left with her sword drawn. Unless he was seeing things, her skin was a dark blue, and her eyes a blood red.

 _Is this what aliens are supposed to look like?_ If he was really on another planet, which seemed more plausible with every passing hour, why was he only seeing them now.

Then again, he saw what he was fairly certain were cat people outside the city.

"What's the meaning of this interruption," the alien challenged. "Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors."

"How about a message then? From the people of Riverwood."

"It's all right, Irileth. I want to hear what he has to say." The Jarl gestured for her to stand down, which she did.

He fished out the note from his pack written and signed by Gerdur. David offered her the message, which she took and read. She squinted at the words and read them aloud.

"Riverwood is defenseless and requires aid for the event of a dragon attack such as the one that befell Helgen."

The words had left the room in horrified silence for a moment.

"By Ysmir, Irileth you were right," declared the jarl when he found his words.

Still, Irileth continued. "Signed on the seventeenth of Last Seed, Gerdur of Riverwood."

"Gerdur?" The blond man on the throne asked to no one in particular." Owns the lumber mill, if I'm not mistaken. Pillar of the community. Not prone to flights of fancy... I must ask though, are you sure Helgen was destroyed by a dragon?"

"The city is locked down, but you haven't heard yet?" David decided to probe him as much as he could while giving the account. "Ulfric Stormcloak and his people were brought to Helgen in carts. Tulius gave them to the headsman one by one, when the dragon came down. The monster destroyed Helgen and burned many of its people."

"So that's where they took him, I should have guessed Ulfric would be mixed up in this. What happened to him?" Balgruuf beckoned for him to continue.

"Ulfric? How can I put this?" David asked the jarl and let the words hang for a moment. The jarl squirmed in his chair as if the suspense would kill him.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, is alive and well." Before it could register, he continued. "He escaped while the Dragon burned Helgen from above, and is on his way back home."

By the time he finished, Balgruuf, Irileth, and a swarthy man with thinning hair who he could not identify, wore faces that ranged from shocked to horrified.

"It seems that civil war is inevitable now," the balding advisor offered his input.

"This could not happen at a worse time," replied Balgruuf.

"My lord," Irileth addressed her jarl. "we should send troops to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger, even if that dragon is not lurking in the mountains... "

"Jarl Siddgier will view that as a provocation," countered the advisor. "He will assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him now that he's back on the loose."

"Enough!" Balgruuf wasn't having it. "Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood, I want them marching south at first light tomorrow."

"Yes, my Jarl." Her reply was swift and automatic.

The advisor stepped forward, "We should not..."

 _"_ I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!" Balgruuf cut him off.

The man at the jarl's side bowed his head knowing the final word had been said. "If you'll excuse me, I'll return to my duties."

"That would be best," Jarl Balgruuf gruffly affirmed.

When the advisor turned away, the jarl turned to address him.

"Well done stranger. You sought me out, on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it." He got up from his seat on the dais, and came down to his level. "You deserve a reward, but first, I'd like you to meet my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons and... rumors of dragons. "

The Courier suppressed a chuckle, and followed the Jarl through an opened door. Inside, he was greeted by a dark haired man in a purple robe, wearing the biggest side burns he'd ever seen.

"Farengar, I think I've found someone who can help you with your dragon project. Go ahead and fill him in with all the details." Balgruff turned face him as he left. "When the two of you are done, talk to my steward. He will see to your needs and your reward."

With that, the jarl left the room.

"So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?" the man in the purple robe posed the question once Balgruuf was gone. "Oh yes, he must be referring to my research into the dragons."

When Balgruuf mentioned a court wizard, he expected to meet an illiterate shaman or some hideously mutilated witch doctor. Farengar, though was nothing like he expected. Instead, he carried himself like an educated scientist on government payroll.

Still, there was something odd about him. More to the point, something was off about his office. Maybe it was the dark metal table behind him that held the skull of something that looked vaguely human.

"How so? Hoping to hear the story of a survivor?"

Farengar nodded, "Your account of what happened at Helgen, could save many lives should the dragon attack Whiterun, but that's only the first part."

"Sure, what then?"

"You stranger, have the look of an adventurer about you."

"Sounds like a job offer," grunted David in acknowledgment.

"Very clever of you," said the 'wizard'. "You're familiar with Riverwood, and I could use somebody to delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there"

"Ancient stone tablet?" David questioned aloud. "I'm gonna guess this has something to do with dragons."

"Ah, no mere brute mercenary, but a thinker, perhaps even a scholar?" Farengar was clearly in the mood to indulge the curious. "You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasies, rumors. Impossibilities. One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible. But I began to search for information about dragons – where had they gone all those years ago? And where were they coming from?"

"Don't know, a lab somewhere?" David guessed based on his adventures in Big MT.

Farengar ignored him, clearly not amused by his suggestion. "I learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow. A 'Dragonstone,' as the ancient Nords called it, said to contain a map of dragon burial sites."

Bleak Falls Barrow. A thought flickered, He was certain he had seen it on the road to Riverwood.

"I need you go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet, no doubt interred in the main chamber, and bring it to me. Simplicity itself."

"Uh huh, how dangerous is this job supposed to be?" Something about the job felt too easy from the way he described it.

"Truth be told, I have no idea. The old Nordic ruins are often favored hideouts for bandits, and that is to say nothing of the traps and other horrors within the ruins themselves."

David thought it over for a moment. "You know, I've taken a few jobs over the years, jobs that involved rescuing people who bit off more than they could chew, or were in trouble because of faulty intel from folks like yourself?"

"Intel _?_ " Farengar asked not understanding its meaning.

 _Shit_ , he cursed himself mentally. If he wanted to fit in, he would adapt the local colloquialisms, and learn not to use certain words.

"Sorry, that's military speak for knowledge I enter the job with."

"I see," replied Farengar. "What are you suggesting?"

"I'm not from around here, as you might have guessed. If this operation is to be successful, I'm going to need to know more about the area for this?"

Farengar pondered his words before replying. "The Jarl will want to know all he can about the dragons, and will invest some resources into an expedition. You will need to be adequately provisioned for such a journey, as you look like Oblivion right now."

"Good to know, a map wouldn't hurt." In the absence of his pip-boy, David really needed a map.

"We will have a pack ready one for you by sunrise then, anything else?" He should not have asked that.

"Yeah, a guide would be nice. Some drinking money too. Also, I've been feeling pain whenever I need to take a leak, Do you have anything for that?"

Farengar stared at him uncomfortably for a few seconds, before retreating to what looked to be a large medicine cabinet. He produced a flask filled with a bright red liquid.

"What's in it?"

"A cure disease potion," replied the wizard whose tone was too matter of fact for a your run of the wastes Nightstalker Oil salesman on a medicine show circuit along Big Circle. "you should probably carry one if you continue delving into dangerous caves like the adventurer you are."

 _I see what you did there_ , David grinned. "Actually, another wizard grabbed me by the special place a couple days ago, and left me with one nasty burn."

The court wizard returned to the med storage, and produced a much smaller vial with a liquid that looked much like the disease potion, though more pinkish in color, and looked similar to the compound found in stimpacks.

"Then I believe this will suffice," he offered the concoction, which David took "This will take care of most burns."

David looked it over for a moment before tossing off the cap, and putting the contents of the vial down the hatch. The potion was bitter, using a strong alcohol as a base and god knew whatever else. The burn washed over him, and he could feel the drink hit his stomach.

Suddenly, he felt good. It was almost as if he had taken a shot of Med-X, except without the damned syringe. A few moments later, he felt a pleasurable stirring in his groin. The burn which was not healing as fast as he wanted, was no longer felt. A second look at his pants, and he realized that they might be glowing.

Before he could react though, the glow subsided, and David took a moment to feel himself. He would not look with Farengar in the room, but he could tell that the burns had healed as a fair amount blood flowed to his shaft.

" _Well I'll be damned,"_ thought David.

"Thank you very much," David extended his free hand. The wizard took it graciously.

"We'll be sure to send you away with some potions tomorrow. As for coin, I can't promise anything myself, but you shall have some eventually. The Companions could really use contracts now though, so we can get probably get one for a reasonable rate to keep you alive."

He thought about the band of warriors he had met on the farmstead. They would know the land far better than he could. David decided it was fair.

"Its a deal then, all I need tonight is a meal, and a place to sleep."

"You should come with me then," Farengar gestured to the hallway. "Our steward Proventus, will surely find accommodation for your most reasonable demands. After that, we can feast in the hall, and I can hear you story."

"So what's an evening meal like around here?" David asked the wizard as they climbed a flight of stairs to the right of the jarl's throne.

"Well, I think a modest feast is in order for the occasion. Tell me though, have you ever had Mammoth?"

 **Author's note: I don't know how, but I managed to pull through much earlier this time. Thanks to all who bother to follow this story.**


	10. Honor among liars

**David**

"Taking your chances coming here. Just like bringing the lord of Vegas his tribute, bending your knee to Old World ghosts, while you brandish the flag of the bear for all to see." The gravelly voice of Ulysses was distorted through the voice box of ED-E. Wherever he had been, Ulysses had picked up the signal the moment they left the silo.

"You and that chip, deserve each other." Ulysses spoke with a scorn he did not understand, though the hate was mutual. This was the man who led the White Legs over the walls of New Canaan. "Twenty-nine less coins than other traitors have carried, if history's true. Now see the road the Old World paves… and what the lights of New Vegas promise, if they haven't blinded your eyes."

"Maybe you better tell me who you are, and what you want." Though he'd already got to know Ulysses by the by trail he left, there was still plenty else he desired to understand.

"I'm a courier. Courier Six… was Courier Six. Like you, and not like you, in all the ways that matter. Spent too many years looking for you – now, letting you come to me. Thought carrying that chip would end you, no… you got lives in you, hard to kill. Storms, bullets… sand and wind, yet still you walk. For now."

"Huh, I got the impression that Frumentarii knew how to find people."

"For a time, your trail was near cold. Looked for shadows, for footprints. Found only empty air."

"I know you're not really Legion, at least not anymore. Why did you want me... Ulysses?"

"Not my given name, close enough. Took it from history, found it in a book. It's an Old World name. Ulysses lived a long time ago, long before the Old World set fire to itself. He made a mark without being myth. Had to fight during a time when his world had two flags, and he had to make them one."

"You still haven't answered my question. Why the obsession for someone you've never met?"

"Words aren't the only ways couriers meet… sometimes it's the paths we walk. But no… we've never spoken before now. You may not know my voice, but we've walked the same places. The Long 15 to Primm… that wasn't the only road you ever walked. I've been to your home, the place you kept returning to… may not be the place you were born, was the place you gave life to, same thing. People forget couriers can keep communities alive… until the day they're gone, and their breath catches in their throat."

Did he know? David's blood ran cold. "By those standards, I've had many places to call home. What home are you referring to?"

"Your real home was the trail from Junktown you blazed. I camped same places you did, hid where you hid. From the Rangers who looked for me, looked for you."

"Of course, they wanted me," David replied flatly. "It was my trail after all."

"More than that, heard them over campfires, talking about you. Had a different name back then. Wore a different face too, your true face. True colors exposed in the Divide for the bear to see."

"Get to the point," David snarled. He could feel the color returning to his face, as blood rushed to his head in irritation. "I heard you were supposed to carry the Chip?"

"Meant to? No. Never. Your burden. Weigh you down long enough to let death catch up to you… but you survived. There was death in that package, and while the Chip is important to Old World ghosts… no, you are more dangerous than that Chip ever could be. Maybe why you found each other, little piece of the Old World, speaking to you, waiting for you to wake something else up with it."

"So you refused to deliver the Chip – what, to set me up to die?"

"We all have death following us, only a question of how close. You dodged it... time and again. You're good at that, talent for it. With that Chip weighing you down… a burden, lets death move a little faster without me pulling the trigger."

"If you wanted me dead, why did you wait?"

"Promises to keep. To others. And the Mojave's dangerous enough, left to the land, land has its way. If I wanted you dead, we would have met sooner. Not sure that's the way this ends. Might be that history needs to have its say. If not, then messages will do."

"You went to a lot of trouble to lure me here, so let's get on with this."

"America sleeps ahead of you, its nightmares filled with quakes, storms. You'll need to find your own path. That means waking America's spears up from their slumber. There's ways - warheads set off the collapse, warheads could open the gates again. You're resourceful. That machine, robot with you - can help you find the warheads you need to destroy… and their trigger, the detonator. The way ahead is below. The tools are there. The rest, up to you."

"Fine. I'll find this trigger, then I'll come find you."

"The Divide will send its worst against you, it may break you. We'll see if you're stronger. Road gets rougher from here… Courier. Left marks for you, colors'll tell the way, if you're smart. They'll lead you to your home one more time, lead to the ending of it; maybe remind you why you wander."

* * *

 **One Week later,**

"That him?" A burly man with thinning hair, in a lavish suit of steel plate armor pointed in his direction.

The housecarl nodded. "That's him."

David could feel the man looking him over as he finished his breakfast in the hall, or "broke his fast," as the cooks called it.

The meal itself, was a handful of sausage links from some kind of animal he never once laid eyes on (but tasted pretty good), complemented with some potato grits and delicious treat known as a sweetroll.

"Looks pretty big for a milk drinker," came his response when he finished sizing him up.

What kind of stupid insult is that supposed to be? David wondered. Besides he wasn't even having any milk with his meal.

He contemplated a reply of his own, but decided against it. His mouth could really get him into trouble here if he started raving before understanding the place he was in.

David did not understand what kind of society Skyrim was, but if this man and his armor - which suggested high status - were any indication, valued honor and battle prowess above all else. A more civilized form of timocracy than the tribals he'd come to associate the term when first learning the lessons of Plato's Republic in school.

There was also the matter of the man behind the armor. Black warpaint brushed over his skin beneath the eyes, one of them gray and sightless. Beyond that, his haggard features told the tale of a rough existence for a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, if not, older. A second look at his countenance though, was enough to suggest that at least some of the lines on his face came from all around nastiness rather than just old age.

"We're not offering the job because he happens to be a milk drinker," The housecarl as she was known, came to his defense, "you're getting it because he's a stranger to Whiterun hold. That and there are some bandits who have been harassing Riverwood. We'll offer 200 for the job, and another 100 for the bounty."

"That's a pretty good contract, sounds like the jarl is riled up with the news of Helgen."

"Let's just say that a good many things hinge on our friend here."

"I see," said the mercenary.

David finished the last of his breakfast, and downed his cup of water to wash off the aftertaste of the grits.

"Ready when you are." He scooped up the pack that had been carefully arranged by Farengar, slinging it over his shoulder.

"Let's go, the name's Skjor by way."

"Call me Ishmael," David gave the name he was known in Dragonsreach as.

They left Dragonsreach in the dawn's early light in a quiet mood. None of them were in the mood for talking this early in the morning which suited David just fine. The city was just waking up as Irileth tagged along to send a garrison to Riverwood.

"Here's my stop boys." The blue skinned woman stopped at the city gate. "They'll be on the road soon, I'm sure they wouldn't mind the company."

She moved for the guardhouse and knocked on the door. In a few seconds, the door was answered and through it emerged four guards in varying states of dress.

"The jarl has finally agreed to send you back to Riverwood," Irileth addressed the small team of guardsmen outside the guardhouse.

"Yes housecarl, we will leave at once. I must ask though, will it just be us against a dragon?" One of the troopers, presumably the leader of the team, or whatever they called someone with the duties of a corporal, asked her.

"We cannot afford to send much more, and the dragon could strike anywhere in the hold. I don't expect the four of you to fight off a dragon, but I expect you to do your duty and get the people to safety."

"We'll be out within the hour." The captain turned to his subordinates. "Time's a wasting."

"Shall we go?" David asked his guide.

"That would be good."

The merc nodded to the guard on gate duty, who pushed open the heavy wooden doors.

They marched through the gates, the two of them. Neither felt much like saying anything until David passed the stables and decided to ask what a horse went for in these parts.

"I'd wager somewhere near a thousand septims for one of Skulvar's horses. You'd have to talk to him about that, preferably some other time."

David shrugged, "It's a bit more than what I have, and I only have so much faith in my bartering skills."

Skjor snorted, then looked at him for a moment in thought. "How do you earn your coin?"

"I do all kinds of things," replied David carelessly.

"Ha," snorted the merc. "That's the kind of answer I would expect somebody who doesn't have a trade to speak of."

"You might say I'm a," David racked his brain for an innocuous phrase that wouldn't prompt more questions than answer... "Man of many trades. You name it, and I've at least tried it somewhere if not made it in that field."

He looked at David suspiciously. "Alright, how about a fighter?"

"In what role?" He asked unsure of how to answer.

"With any guilds I mean," Skjor elaborated.

"I was a company soldier once."

"Company?" Wondered the companion. "As in trading company?"

"I was for a time," David affirmed.

"Who were you with? East Empire?" Asked Skjor.

He shook his head, "It was called Glacier Company. We were a force to be reckoned with back then, but it's been some time since then."

"What brought you to Whiterun?" Skjor inquired.

"Some friends. They needed me to bring the Jarl a message."

"I heard you were at Helgen."

David wondered how much he should let on. Skjor was a blunt man who clearly hated beating around the brush, but was clearly trying to find out something like a civilian ranger prying for dirt.

The companions were a mercenary company of sorts, and like Whiterun should remain neutral by principal. Still, he'd learned the hard way a few years ago just how fickle mercs could be. Plenty had offered their services in a never ending auction where the highest bidder could be someone else at any time.

At the same time though, he had a feeling the Legion would not request the services of the Companions anytime soon with Helgen in disarray.

"I was there when the dragon came down. I took the job in Riverwood though. They wanted protection."

Skjor pressed his lips together, and held an impressive poker face.

"I heard some strange tales last night, why did the dragon attack Helgen of all places?"

"I wish I could tell you, but nothing makes any sense. Tulius ordered the executions of Ulfric and his Stormcloaks, when it came out of the sky."

"Huh? So the Ulfric was there?" Skjor raised an eyebrow.

"Not anymore, he survived and went east. I'm sure at least some of the Legion made it out too."

The man chewed it over for a few moments clearly trying to figure out the implications.

"Hmm, no avoiding the war now."

"Where does Whiterun lean if I might ask?" David could probably guess, but what he really wanted was to gauge Skjor's opinion.

"Hard to say, the jarl has grievances in both Windhelm and Solitude. But I would assume Balgraff would side with the Empire if he were forced to make the choice."

"Will the Companions take a side?"

Skjor, the caged beast of a man he was, shook his head in disgust. "Not a chance, it would tear us apart just like it will Skyrim." He pressed his fists to his hips. "Besides," added Skjor, "we take jobs in every hold regardless of who their Jarl will support."

David dropped the matter at that. The merc for his part, was also content to be quiet.

Soon, they reached the crossroads near the river, and traversed the bridge on the road to Riverwood. Beyond it, the trail took on a moderate grade uphill.

As they neared the top, Skjor suddenly stopped. "What's this?" He asked aloud to no one in particular.

 _Damn it._ Suddenly it dawned on him, as Skjor turned his attention to the roadside brush and weaved his arms around the foliage to part its green screen.

David tried to keep a neutral expression as the merc looked over the body of a legionary propped up against a rock he'd fought yesterday.

"Upper body skin looks like milk, feet are red as snow berries. Must have died yesterday," deduced the canny mercenary.

Indeed the body had been there long enough for the remaining blood in his body to settle in the lower half of his form.

"Interesting, not like many Stormcloaks would bother to hide their dead, and this one was dragged while he was still alive."

"What's the Legion supposed to be doing less than an hour's walk from Whiterun?" David asked the question in hopes of steering the focus of the merc. He knew way more than he had a right to know for someone who hadn't been there to see it.

"Probably just passing through with his Legion brothers..." It was as if he suddenly realized there was more. Skjor shifted his attention to what had to be the other two.

A few moments later, the man returned sniffing the air like a Denver Hound. It went on for a few seconds, until Skjor glanced at David's lower half.

The Mercenary glanced up, their eyes met.

For one long horrible moment he looked into the one good eye of the Companion, and realized that something was off about the man indeed.

"Where did you get that sword?" There was a wary edge to Skjor's voice.

David felt his lips curl in a slight smile. "Helgen, why do you ask?"

"Because all three bear the marks of legion issue steel." The words strongly implied that he had killed for the Legion long ago. "Somebody killed them here with a sword made for the empire. Somebody who was also on the road yesterday." He paused for a moment as if unsure if he should continue. "Somebody who didn't do a very good job washing the blood off of their blade."

David felt thunderstruck and knew he was losing his composure. Who the hell was this guy? What kind of person could link out the smell of a particular person's blood, to a weapon.

It was not quite unheard of though. He had known a fair share of people with superhuman or near superhuman abilities well before he became one himself. Most notably were the Hexes, or Hex Men as they were known to others beyond the ranges of the Bighorns in Wyoming.

David dropped what part of the pretense remained, and casually beat his hands together a few times in a mock clapping motion.

"Very good story. Except for the fact that all the evidence is circumstantial. How would you know if my blade smells of legionnaires? Besides," he added tauntingly. "What makes you think a _'milk drinker'_ like myself would be capable of putting those three in the dirt in a fair fight?"

"Because somethings not right with you, got a feeling..."

"What's that feeling?" David asked him.

"There's something off about you. You're not telling me everything. The question is why?"

David let out a mirthless chuckle. Not a particularly pleasant sound. "Could say the same about you?"

"Don't play with me!" Skjor snarled. "Whiterun may be neutral, but it still offers bounties for the killings of Imperial soldiers."

David dropped what remained of his act. Gone was the carefree facade he had tried to keep up. In its place, was only coldness. "I'm not worth the payday, and I think you know that."

"Who says it's about money. Companions uphold the law when the guards of hold can't be bothered. We do not run with outlaws, or two faced adventurers like yourself."

David laughed at the irony. "Funny thing by the way, I spoke to one of your order yesterday who suggested I that I speak with your man, what's his name... Kodlak White-Mane, that's right. Seems like a haven for people with dark secrets if you're any indication. Might change the name to Double Life Brotherhood and I'm in."

Skjor's dominant hand, which was level with his ribcage suddenly twitched as if the remark was enough for him to draw the longsword that hung by his sid _e._ "Small chance of that," the mercenary growled. "White-Mane could turn you away with a look into your soul."

He was hiding something no doubt. "Tell you what, I'm not sure how much I should care about it here, so I'll drop my lie if you drop yours."

"What exactly do you think I am?" Skjor asked brusquely.

"Well..." David Shrugged. "There's this cult. They come from a faraway land. They believe in some pretty weird doctrines about aliens, and they have this thing for radical, how do I put this..." He tried to think of the simplest explanation possible. "They believe that some otherworldly space emperor of evil is trying to turn mankind against itself, and the only way to fight it is to undergo rituals that transform the initiate into something more powerful, if they don't die first."

Something about the last sentence clearly made the mysterious mercenary uncomfortable. David continued, knowing that he was going in the right direction.

"They call them Hex Men, those who survive and get their alignment. Save for a handful of frequent themes like sterility or potentially terminal diseases, its different for everyone."

"Why are you telling me about this?" Skjor asked him confused, but also wary.

"Because all the best cults have a business model." He grinned. "You see, their way to bring in money was to roam the lands every coming of spring and kill things most people wouldn't dare to touch. They all had a special power of sorts to give 'em an edge over the average man," he continued, "it was a pretty good place for a man wanting to get rich by the sword. But a pyramid is still a pyramid. The wealth always found a way to the top and the 'glorious prophet Elrond' who invented the whole idea after getting chased out of the cult that he was born into."

Skjor, though he looked fit to burst a blood vessel somewhere, stayed silent. David came to his conclusion.

"You remind me of someone I knew. His name was Gerald, and he was the best damned tracker I've ever met. He could find trails for the smallest of animals and follow them across miles of flat rock. Where I'm from, they're called 'freaks' and 'muties.' Non-freaks don't seem to like freaks very often, and I know secrecy is in your company's best interest?"

"Alright whelp, what do you want?"

"General Tulius wanted to kill the Stormcloaks as soon as possible, and didn't care to see if every condemned man, woman and child were even combatants. Anybody who claimed their innocence, were told it would be sorted out later." David let out a bitter laugh at the memory of the sympathetic clerk with the hooked nose.

"So when the dragon came down, I chose to earn my death warrant instead of taking it on my knees."

"Did they know?" Skjor gestured in general direction of the bodies.

"Honestly, I panicked," explained David. "In all honesty, I don't even know if the Legion would remember me. They didn't even try to interrogate me."

The merc's eyes widened. "Tulius is known for being a thorough in everything he does. I guess Ulfric's capture clouded his judgment."

"It could happen to anybody, which is why I would like you to help me keep this," he gestured towards the dead men, "under wraps. We've a job to do and I'm sure that helping me saves both of us some awkward questions down the road."

Skjor sighed. "Promise me that you'll let me do the talking if we run into Legionaries?"

"Fair enough," agreed David.

"One more thing, Ishmael. If I'm to do the talking I'll need a story to go with."

* * *

 **Veronica**

It was almost noon when he came.

Nobody in the lunchtime crowd stood out so easily as Arcade Gannon, especially with the pip-boy he carried now. He scanned the smoky room until settling on her. He nodded in her direction before coming over to her table before taking a seat across the table.

"Its been a while," said Arcade.

"It has," agreed Veronica. "Thanks for seeing me outside of the Fort."

"So what's up with you?"

Veronica went straight to the heart of the matter, and showed him the signed transmission on her pip-boy.

"Hmmm..." Arcade studied the message for a moment. "What would be around Primm?"

Veronica gestured at Arcade's computer. "You didn't happen to get any recent transmissions did you?"

The expression on the doctor's face visibly darkened.

"I got the coordinates to some place around La Madre mountain."

"Why there?"

Arcade shrugged. "Why should I know? Its not like there are any top secret bunkers in the area."

"Should there be?" She raised an eyebrow.

"No," Arcade answered with a tone that somehow didn't meet his eyes.

"What do you think it is?"

Arcade mulled over the question for a moment. There was something about him that reminded her of David.

Though their physiques were vastly different, they somehow bore a striking resemblance in facial structure. The cheek bones, ears, and even the nose were familiar. There was also the fact that they had both come from the Hub.

"Do you remember what David was like after he came back from Utah?"

She nodded, "something changed."

"I think David wrote a will and arranged for the messages to be sent should some Ill befall him."

"How would that work?"

He pointed at Veronica's occupied wrist."You know that card in your Pip-Boy, the one that lets you see satellite imagery. It was designed for so much more."

"What do you mean Arcade?"

"The Government, the uh... Pre war one that is, was interested in colonizing other planets with less than welcoming environments. The device on our arms regularly checks vitals and sends out alerts if programed to do so."

"Hmmm," Veronica thought about the implications. "So you're telling me, that three different points on a map are a distress signal of sorts?"

Arcade shook his head. "Not at all. He was here before he disappeared a week ago. David said he had some personal business waiting for him in the Divide."

"There's nothing in the Divide, what could he possibly want?" Asked Veronica.

"He never said, but there was death in those eyes."

Suddenly, a thought flickered. "That cloud west of the Nopahs, you don't think..."

"I do, Veronica." Arcade finished for her. "I'm not sure if the Brotherhood knows, but the NCR didn't just want the Divide for a supply line."

 **Author's Note: The updates have been even slower on accout of a Fallout 4 story that was stuck in my head way too long.**


	11. New California Dreaming

**Veronica**

She stepped out into the late morning sun and followed Arcade's lead.

He had to settle some affairs over at the fort before taking another leave of absence, and promised to be back at the Wrangler in a few hours time.

A Follower and a Brotherhood exile walking the Mojave. This would be an interesting if not awkward journey to say the least.

In the meantime, she decided to look around the neighborhood.

The first place to get her attention was the Silver Rush. It looked exactly as she remembered something felt different about the place.

As if to answer her thoughts, a man in metal armor emerged from the building. She recognized him as one of the bounty hunters who were known to hang around McCarran. Veronica called out to him as he neared her on the street.

"What's a laser pistol worth these days?" She nodded in her head in the direction of the Silver Rush.

"More than the usual. The caravan roads ain't safe and demand is through the roof."

"So how do you get yours?" She could probably guess, but she was curious to hear his perspective.

He looked at her curiously for a moment before his expression changed. It was the face she'd seen on men who happened to be in a bragging mood.

"Oh there's plenty for the taking. I dunno where they come from, but every other fiend seems have a laser weapon worth at least a hundred caps. Their guns are worth more than their actual bounties right now."

"They wouldn't get those raiding caravans would they?"

"I don't know." The merc shrugged. "I don't know, caravans usually avoid that area as much as they can."

"I heard there was a factory somewhere in South Vegas that made energy weapons." She recalled hearing about a plant in the area that the pre war government had contracted for laser weaponry.

He looked at her, as if trying to measure her again.

"I've heard a few stories about buried treasure in fiend territory. Not sure how many of them I should believe, but then again you never know what you'll find on a body, when you take the head.

Veronica grimaced. "Do you seriously need to carry fiend heads for a bounty?"

"They used to accept scalps, but a couple of assholes ruined it for everyone else a couple months back. Couple of dumbass ex-cons decided to raid the Quarry Junction for easy scalps.

"Quarry Junction, seriously?" That place made any raider camp in the Mojave look vulnerable by comparison.

Well, a pack of deathclaws had just decided to call the place home and ruined any chance they had at getting close enough to the miner they shot and finish the job. One of them became Deathclaw food, and the other was captured by rangers."

"What happened to him?" Veronica asked.

"Colonel Hsu had him hanged from McCarran's control tower. Had Dhatri round up the regular bounty crowd for moonshine and popped corn."

She felt her lips twitch in disgust at the idea of a man being executed in the setting of a neighborhood barbecue.

"You had a party while someone was being hanged. Doesn't that feel a little, I don't know... barbaric?"

"Maybe if you grew up in New California proper I guess. Me though, I came from the Den. Not even NCR could make that place value human life."

As disgusting as it sounded, did she really have a right to judge? That was a question she did not have the answer for. At least, not anymore.

"I heard about that place," Veronica deadpanned. "How goes the slave trade on big circle?"

The man in the metal armor laughed. "Pretty good. Maybe I should have gone into finance. I heard the Guild is looking to put a finger in the Mojave before Happy Trails steals all the fun."

"Good company to work for, that Happy Trials."

"A few of the boys back at McCarran figure they'll sign on when they come..." his voice trailed off.

"What?" Asked Veronica.

"I shouldn't talk about it," responded the soldier of fortune. "We contractors have a security clearance and all."

"That's a shame, you look thirsty." She reached into her robes and produced a bottle of whiskey.

His eyes lit up, and she let him have a swallow of the bottle.

"That's some pretty good stuff, what's in it?"

"Mostly corn, Boomers are pretty sparing with the grain."

"I heard Happy Trails got exclusive trading rights with the Boomers."

Veronica shook her head. "They probably do more trade with Gun Runners to tell you the truth. By the way, how are things over at McCarran?"

"Crimson Caravan is still filling most of the East Army contracts if that's what you were wondering. Most of course were no bids, or so Contreras tells me. I swear Kimball gets a nice kickback for this if he's sending a full brigade from the first up the long 15."

She tried to process the words as she heard them. "More soldiers, here?"

"Yeah that's right. They're coming in through Nipton and the Outpost."

"Nipton?" Last she had heard, the town had been wiped out by Vulpes Inculta himself.

"Yep, dug up from the grave. There's a second lifeline opening up, and its a rail head."

 _'Everything will change with the coming of the train.'_

The Brotherhood of Steel had little interest in history save for "the important parts." Anything that happened before the birth of Roger Maxson was irrelevant. Of even less interest was anything the Followers called humanities.

Had they understood more about the settling of the American West, they might have understood their enemies better. The Railroad in her mind, was a symbol of all the things that would doomed the Brotherhood.

They stood a chance against the adventurers who came east with only their guns as backup. Soon they would bring their families and root themselves in the sands of the Mojave under the cloak of manifest destiny or whatever came out of Kimball's mouth these days.

"Who's trains are coming to Nipton?" The merc took probably took her for a caravaneer, and she had no intention of disavowing him.

"I don't know," he shrugged. "Crimson has plently of rolling stock in the Hub, but I hear the competition is pretty cutthroat back west. They say every cattleman and water merchant in California are trying to get their own working engine. I'm pretty sure Happy Trails is trying to get in on it too."

Cass had once mentioned that a line between Sac-Town and New Reno was in the works. After recent success in both Nevada and the Utah country, that was no longer a distant possibility for a company that teetered on bankruptcy less than six months ago.

They continued chatting for a while over other caravan gossip. None of it held her interest though, and before long they parted ways.

Veronica looked at her pip-boy for the time. It would be about two more hours before Arcade was ready.

To kill the time she decided to head on down to Mick and Ralph's and do some shopping for the trip.

As she walked down Freeside she took in the sights. It may have been exactly as she remembered, but she could feel change in the air.

Down the boulevard, she could see a securitron making its rounds. Behind it, a small band of departing tourists walked briskly to keep pace with the robot. Along the sidewalks, she could see the lean hungry stares of destitute men. Resentment lined their faces. Both at the robot and the tourists she guessed.

Before the troubles, Freeside was a pretty harmless place by wasteland standards. The muggers only came out at night and the Kings walked around like actual kings of the road.

All that changed with the influx of refuges. The easygoing anarchy of Freeside attracted many individuals from both east and west who for one reason or another had been displaced by someone bigger.

Since many of them came from cultures that simply took what they wanted, it was only a matter of time before the locals got violent. Now self proclaimed vigilantes roamed the streets at night, exacting retribution over crimes both real and imagined.

Things had clearly not changed for the better since House sent patrols through down the main avenue. At the intersection of Las Vegas Boulevard and Bonanza, a decaying corpse hung from a street light a stone's throw from the Old Mormon Fort.

As she passed the grisly sight, Veronica noticed a placard hanging from his form. _Rape fugee_ was inscribed on the cardboard in barely legible handwriting.

"Something to see ain't it?"

Veronica turned to face the speaker. It was a King with the usual rock star haircut and a black leather jacket. He was an arrogant one. He held sway with many of the Kings, she could tell, and had he been more tribal she might have expected him to proclaim his status as an alpha male and demand mating rights.

"Its like a puppet on a string." He spoke as if it were an old world painting.

"Your work? Am I supposed to admire it or something?"

Her response had taken the greasy man in the King's Jacket a back, but only for a second.

"You should, that New California reject raped some girl over on the North side. Not sure who got him in the end, but I approve."

Veronica wanted to call bullshit. This was Freeside.

Since when did anybody in this part of town care about the concept of justice? If a hapless tourist was taken advantage of, the locals would just as likely take turns with her as they would take pity.

Before House deployed securitron patrols, Freeside's reputation was the perfect place for "protection" services. Its gangs had made a plenty of caps on ensuring safe passage of travelers through the hellhole of muggers and worse that was Freeside.

The Kings easily had the biggest share of that market, which had dried out overnight.

Part of her still felt that seeing communities like Freeside fight back was supposed to be a good thing. But Veronica knew plenty about the vigilante movements. For many, things like justice and fair play took a back seat as wealthier neighbors from the West began to surround the nascent downtown and newcomers encroached on turf that was previously unchallenged.

"Must have been a pretty important girl if he would up in Freeside," Veronica deadpanned.

"More important than men like him," he pointed at the body. "All they do is steal. They want our homes, our food, our hooch..."

"Our women?" She finished for him.

The lines on his face twitched when she said it.

"You should feel safe," the King angrily retorted. "Its the only thing to put the Californios and the Easterners for that matter in their place!"

"Right, I feel very safe knowing that I only need to take care of myself if its a local." She gently lifted her sleeve to reveal the cold steel fingers of a pneumatic gauntlet on her right hand."

Veronica walked away before he could respond. No good would come out of that exchange. Thankfully, it was a only a short walk to Mick and Ralph's from there. Indeed, it was barely more then a block away.

As usual, a small group of bums loitered outside the store. As she passed through, two of them heckled her for caps, but she refused to make eye contact.

"Well howdy do, how's prospecting?" Mick greeted her as if she were a distant friend.

"I got an expedition to pack for," replied Veronica. "I need some things you aren't really allowed to sell."

He laughed. "What kind of things?"

She reached into her pack and pulled out an envelope. "Arcade Gannon sent me."

He took the envelop and opened it. "Identification documents huh? I can have those ready first thing tomorrow. Anything else?"

Veronica took one long look at the wares on the shelves.

"I'll need a new bedroll, a bottle of cateye, and a change of clothes."

"What kind of clothes are we talking about?" Mick asked as he gathered the other items.

"I'll need some decent undergarments, preferably NCRA issue. I'd also like a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt."

Mick brought the items to the counter. The shirt was homespun by its looks and colored a drab grey and only a few shades darker than the army underwear. The pants were a light brown and by a cursory glance, looked to be a reasonable fit.

"Say, you got any dresses Mick? Veronica asked on impulse.

Mick furrowed his brow, and looked around the store. He came back with a faded yellow dress.

It was a beautiful dress. She looked at the barely legible tags within. It was by no means perfect fit, but it could work.

"How much for this?" She asked.

"Its all been taken care of."

Veronica raised an eyebrow. "By whom?"

"An old ghoul," replied Mick. "You might say he takes care of your tab..."

Veronica pondered that for a moment. Who in Freeside would do that for her?

A few names came to mind, most of whom she did not trust.

"On second thought, I don't know about the dress. Maybe not this time."

Without a word, the shopkeeper tenderly returned the item to its place on the shelf.

"Thanks," she halfheartedly muttered.

"No problem," he replied. "See you in the morning."

After leaving the shop, she decided to return to the Wrangler. She wasn't necessarily afraid of wandering alone in Freeside, but at the same time, something around here felt volatile.

It felt almost like sharing a dimly lit basement with killer ants and high explosives.

There was something about the atmosphere of Freeside, that made even seemingly dauntless individuals like David Kelly tread with care.

She took an alternative route to the Wrangler through the territory of the Golden Geckos.

When she was last here, the nascent gang of Californian immigrants was maybe half a dozen chem addicts.

Now, she could feel its presence all along the East fringe of Freeside up to the fort, wherever desperate men in rags congregated. Graffiti covered the walls, and toughs in golden brown leather suits roamed the Maryland parkway in broad daylight.

Not long ago, the Kings walled the streets of Freeside unchallenged. Now, upstart gangs like the Golden Geckos, the Zorros, and the even the Siegal family were carving up Freeside as best they could. None of them were strong enough to challenge the Kings directly, and all except the Geckos went out of their way not to offend the Kings.

After about a dozen blocks, she reached the sight of the fort, and from there, it was a quick walk to the bar.

It was a half past three when she returned to the Atomic Wrangler. The table they had lunch over was open, so she took a seat and ordered a gecko kebab. Arcade had figured on coming back sometime around four.

She thought about the idea of a Follower and a Brotherhood exile walking the Mojave as she waited for the food. This would be an interesting if not awkward journey to say the least.

The food came about the same time as Arcade; ten minutes to four.

"How do you do Mr. Gannon?" They were visited by the slender, handsome form of Francine Garrett.

"Pretty good, Francine." Arcade's reply was curt and automatic.

"James says you'll be out of town for a while."

Arcade grimaced for a moment before he spoke. "I'm sure he'll manage without me. Julie Farkas is easy enough to get along with."

"I don't doubt it, but James seems to prefer you for some reason."

Arcade may have been one of the best poker players she had seen on a card table, but Veronica saw right through his features and found herself fighting to keep a straight face.

For most people, Arcade was a shy dork with zero people skills. She knew him and his type better though. Beneath the surface, there was raging sexual beast rattling its cage to get out.

 _Nobody makes love like a dork_. She could still hear that voice in her head reminding her of a lover long vanished.

"Probably because Julie never comes here," deadpanned the Followers doctor.

Francine laughed at that.

"While you are a regular that is." She winked at him. "By the way, thanks for handling the next couple weeks of shipments for us. James is a bit 'indisposed' right now, but he'd like me to comp you the high roller package."

She checked her pockets, and produced a key and a small stack of poker chips. "Your meal is on the house too by the way."

"In that case, I'd like a well done Lakelurk Steak, and a desert salad with a glass of tequila. preferably, preferably that stuff that comes from Bullhead."

"Anything for you dear?" Francine turned over to face Veronica. "I imagine you'd want more than a kebab if you're with him.

"I'll have a double brahmin burger, the one smothered in agave sauce."

"Anything to drink?"

"Get me an Atomic Cocktail."

Francine nodded and headed off to the kitchens."

Veronica looked at Arcade for a moment after she left.

"So James Garrett, what's he like?

Arcade shrugged. "Pretty upright businessman by Freeside standards.."

"Uh huh," she deadpanned. "Very altruistic."

"He's also a good man to have a few shots with." She was certain she saw a twinkle in his eyes.

"You know, I've never done body shots before."

"It was some pretty good tequila." This time his expression was unabashed.

"Did you have the worm afterwards?"

Before Arcade could reply, a ghoul in a suit spoke into a microphone on the stage.

"Its just a little after four, and we've already got a pretty good lineup for you today. I'd even say we have the Tops beat this time."

A few laughs came from the audience.

To kick things off, we have a special guest who would like to 'get some notes off his chest' so to speak."

She turned her attention to the band, as they started their song. It was old favorite among ghouls from California if she remembered correctly.

 _I came here looking for something  
I couldn't find anywhere else  
Now, I'm not trying to be nobody  
I just want a chance to be myself_

Suddenly, a ghoul in a familiar jumpsuit entered the stage from behind the curtains and started singing along with the lead. Veronica clapped along with the crowd.

 _I've spent too many years just roaming  
I traveled hell in search of Bliss  
Trying to find me something better  
Here on the streets of Necropolis_

 _Hey, you don't know me, but you don't like me  
You say you care less how I heal  
But how many of you who sit and judge me  
have walked the streets of Necropolis?_

 _Spent sometime in San Francisco  
I spent a night there in the tank  
The Shi threw this drunker in my jail cell  
I took fifty dollars from that bank  
swapped out my watch and my old house key  
Don't want folks thinkin' that he'd miss  
Then I thanked him as I was leaving  
And I headed for Necropolis_

 _Hey, you don't know me, but you don't like me  
You say you care less if I heal  
But how many of them who sit and judge me  
have walked the streets of Necropolis?_

They repeated the chorus once more before the song came to an end. The curtain closed, and the room erupted with applause. Half of it she assumed was drunken cheer.

Veronica smiled to herself. For a ghoul, Raul had a pretty good singing voice. There was also the fact that the afternoon crowd never wrangled much in the way of talent before Cass convinced him to moonlight as a bar singer.

It had been a joke at first, the product of a tequila drinking contest (which Cass won). Raul had to sing in one of the sketchiest bars Freeside had to offer.

The mostly reclusive ghoul in his dirty Petro Chico jumpsuit put on a surprisingly good performance, and local crowds seemed to take an instant liking to him.

Now he took to the stages of Freeside now and then. His gigs brought in almost as much as his shop did, and more than a few customers.

The experience had also made Raul a little less timid; Well, at least when it came to standing on a stage. Singing an old ballad or playing a popular classic.

It was funny to imagine, but in a way she envied Raul. In less than two months, he had gone from being a timid old ghoul locked away by super mutants to being a beloved icon of Freeside.

Nobody expected anything of an old ghoul when he came to Freeside, and yet here he was having found his own way in the world. A renaissance man as some in the pre-war world would have called him.

For the first time in decades if not a century, Raul had found something in Freeside that threatened to hold him down.

Suddenly, he put himself closer to the microphone.

"I've got another song to sing if you don't mind, this one's for a friend."

Veronica and Arcade traded glances.

 **Ulysses**

That night he dreamt he was in Dry Wells. At first, it looked as it had been when he saw it last.

Legion tents lined the open spaces in neat orderly rows, while the skeletons of his kinsmen hung on crosses beside the long 40. Beneath them, local recruits trained and marched off to war. And yet, not all was as he had last seen it.

A dark mist shrouded the encampment and everything else as far as his eyes could see. Mist that the living seemed indifferent to at best.

He looked up to the sun. Through the mist, its golden light shined down and watched all below its skies with a sublime appearance, through all the darkness.

It was a sun without heat, and only faint light.

Ulysses walked down a broken road that fed into the highway, feeling an odd sense of detachment.

To his left, a Decanus led his ten past him on the other side of the road, without even one glancing in his direction.

Past them he could see a fox marking territory at the base of a cross. The animal could not stay content for long and sought more places to mark. For all its cunning, it still needed to indulge its true nature.

It crossed the road and an old railroad track, where a signal light was planted by the rails. That was when he saw the beast.

On the other side, was an animal he had never seen. The creature pawed at the rail bed as though there were a nest of mole rats beneath the tracks.

Its eyes were blue, its coat was gold. Four muscular legs supported its lean and hungry body.

The fox was not quick enough to pay heed, nor did it offer the proper deference a lesser animal would give to a stronger predator.

In barely more than a leap, the creature was on the quick fox. He could hear a whimper as it tore open the throat of the fox.

He moved past the scene, and walked near the tiny cluster of Old world buildings that clustered along a three way junction that made the Dry Wells as it had once been and as it would become.

A roadside eatery was first of a handful of buildings that still stood. Its windows were long since shattered and the painted sign towering over the storefront had been eroded from the wood one chip of paint at a time.

The familiar smell of blood and gun smoke attacked his nose, and grabbed his attention. Below a side walk table he could see a puddle of blood welling up as if fresh spilled.

On the rusted iron table was a poker chip and a mostly empty bottle of whiskey. By it on a chair, he could see a gray short haired kitten curled in a ball and purring away.

A second look, and he could see that the poker chip beside the bottle was cracked.

 _Might be a sign there_ , he wondered.

The next building across the intersection was a dusty road stop.

The sign that proclaimed the station's ownership was broken in two. Most of the sign remained up while the a significant chunk had fallen on a lame Yao Guai crushing it at the neck. The three pronged fork of the Poseidon seemed as if it had been lodged firmly under its thick flesh. For all the blood and broken bones it could still grunt as if undaunted by its wounds.

"More," its angry guttural cries seemed to say.

He moved on, not spending too much time focused on the strange sight.

Ulysses turned his eyes to the old police station across the roads. Its outside front was well maintained, fresh paint coated its walls. Through the opened doors, though he could see a dirty interior.

Blood covered the walls and hooded men hung from the rafter beams.

The next building was known by its sign as the Dry Wells Merc, a general goods store. It was falling apart, but treasures in nearly anything man valued lined its shelves.

The aisles of the store were covered in more bodies. Nothing remained except for their weapons and their symbols of allegiance. A lone eyebot roamed the ghostly store.

As he moved on, the Eyebot ended its vigil over the scene and sped down the road alongside him.

 _It knows its symbol,_ Ulysses decided, and stopped by the last building on that dusty road. An old world traveler's lodge stood by the roads. Much of the original writing had faded and only the word "Vacancy" was fully legible.

By its entrance, he saw ruins of a statue he did not remember. Two trunk less legs of tarnished silver stood over a pedestal, with its plaque long since disappeared. Around the base were chunks of the statue fallen by under the shadow of what little still stood.

"Don't you remember you," he mumbled to no one in particular.

"Then maybe you can grasp the meaning mortal," a booming yet strangely soft spoken and distorted voice answered him through that machine by his side.

"What meaning is left in such a monument then?"

"You know the meaning, Ulysses. The only thing that truly matters." The machine floated level with his shoulders as its speakers seemed to quake with the sound of the voice.

"Its purpose was to preserve a past long gone, a past few remain to remember."

"Most impressive," said the deep voice. "A history gone to forbidden tombs, and forgotten tomes. You can see it the structure of the statue, the silver legs will lose its structure, and soon only the feet will remain on the pedestal. Feet of iron, ebony, and many other metals that mingle poorly. All that will remain is are the broken foundations on which it was built."

"What made the rest of the statue?" Asked Ulysses.

"Many more things long gone to the ground. Can you see the large stone at the base of the pedestal?" The mysterious voice taunted him. "How many would still remember the gold that made its thighs, or why it turned to stone and fell from its place?"

He noticed other material on the desert sands by the asphalt. Shattered red rock covered in strange writings, and a great head of marble still showing the proud features of a woman despite the scars of time that crossed her face.

"Would seem that time has done its work," he commented on the ruins.

"Indeed it does wanderer. Nothing lasts forever."

"What happens now. Do the ruins stay ruins?" Ulysses was beginning to understand the riddle.

"They do, Its a monument to something long gone. Something its children could never rebuild. Instead, they will cut their own stone and pray that they last an age."

"They should not pray. They should keep building, or all that they have made will falter."

"Oh, I agree. The problem is that few these days understand it. Most thirst for for the things of today, never stopping to think of what they will leave behind, yet obsessed with destroying what their forebears left behind.

"How does this concern a wanderer like me?" He asked the voice.

"The world will soon have a chance to create in itself a new image. A time shall come when you understand more. For now though, go about your travels and think critically."

The voice echoed, then faded. The sun disappeared, and the sky grew dark.

Ulysses opened his eyes.

 **Note time children...**

 **Citation du jour is Streets of Bakersfield - Dwight Yoakim.**

 **I'm back. In addition to the usual bullshit of life, I would like to add volunteer work, alcohol and relationship drama to my list of excuses for emulating literary serial killer and mountain who hardly ever writes, George R.R Martin. Oh, and a new job.**

 **Speaking of the man, I saw this video where** **Iweon Rheon (Ramsay Snow from Game of Thrones) was singing with Danny** **Trejo (Raul), about some red nose day or something like that. It dawned on me that Raul should be a good singer as far as ghouls go.**

 **On a related note, Raul is a gunslinger with an awesome voice, a killer costume and a dark backstory. Considering the love Charon and Hancock get, why does Raul have to get by on so little?**

 **#Dicks out for Raul**


	12. Highwaymen

**Veronica**

Raul's gloved hands strummed the guitar for his next song, while the rest of the band scattered. There was a somber twinkle in the Ghoul's ancient eyes.

 _I was a trooper, a Radpaloosa I did ride.  
rusty repeater by my side  
Many farmers lost their harvest to my runs  
Many soldiers lost their lives to my gun  
The red ones hung me in fall seventy-five  
But I am still alive._

 _I was a preacher  
I was born to spread the word  
and offer guidance to the herds  
In the east lands tribals saw me as a beacon  
they followed me into a war against the heathens  
And when the legion won they said that I got __killed  
But I am living still_

 _I ran a caravan across the valley deep and wide  
Where hope and ashes would collide  
A place divided by the old world and the new one  
The earthquake came then and it swallowed everyone  
It buried me in that great tomb that knows no sound_

 _But I am still around._

 **David**

 _I'll fly a spaceship across the Universe divide_  
 _And when I reach the other side_  
 _I'll find a place to rest my spirit if I can_  
 _Perhaps I may become a highwayman again_  
 _Or I may simply be a single drop of rain_  
 _But I will remain_  
 _And I'll be back again, and again and again and again and again..._

Skjor had been watching him curiously the whole time. By the look on his face, he seemed convinced that David was an alien invader, which was pretty damned hilarious.

"Well Skjor my friend, you asked."

"Yeah I did," the giant of a merc admitted. "Wouldn't call it a proper warriors tune though. Hard enough to call that a song."

"Why's that now?" He turned to look at the big man with a shit eating grin. They were walking up the mountain to Bleak Falls and the tomb that dominated the summit.

"Not many warriors would sing about faking death and running, and any bard that made a song about someone doing it might still have to back up his words with an ax."

David shrugged. "Tell me, do you have a mission in life that goes beyond a glorious death? Do you have a family?"

"The Companions are my life and my family," the merc's answer was swift and brusque. It was the sort of answer he would expect from someone married to an organization.

"Okay then, made any babies with any of your family?"

"No."

"Okay then," David tried to switch gears a little bit. "If enemies stronger than your family stood to kill them because of you unless you disappeared, what would you do?'"

"Fight them of course," Sjkor was matter of fact, but did not quite understand the question. "What kind of Nord goes quietly?"

David looked at the man with a feeling of sadness. "A man whose existence will bring danger to those he loves, but still has to live so that he can provide for them."

"Those enemies don't sound like the empire."

He nodded in agreement. "The empire and I know next to nothing about each other and even if they did, I don't have any ties to this land that would pay the price of knowing me."

"Why do I have the feeling that you are going to have a bounty in every hold before the year is out?"

"For all I know of Skyrim, I very well might," David replied somberly. "These things happen in wars if you find yourself on the wrong side."

"How often has that happened to you?" asked the honorable hired gun.

David Ishmael Kelly thought about that one for a moment. There was Colorado, and the giant clusterfuck that some where calling the Montana wars. And that was all before he'd gone to California.

"Depending on how you look at it, I'd say at least twice, maybe more."

"Maybe more?"

"First war I saw, was more like few different wars happening about the same time."

"Don't tell me you lost in all of them," Sjkor spoke in a tone that seemed to be only half joking.

David laughed. "Just the ones that counted."

"You were a company soldier. Who exactly did you lose to?"

"Every other neighbor, I'd say. Glacier Company had a tendency to bite off more than they could chew and drag GNU into one conflict or another."

"GNU?" asked Skjor.

"Great Northern Union," clarified David. "They chartered Glacier company as a private means of furthering trade and recolonizing the frontier."

"I take it their neighbors weren't happy about it."

"They were not," he shook his head.

"The GNU had a lot of people, hell it had a lot of things not many could claim to have. Thing is when you get a lot of something, you either chase more of the same or you suddenly decide you need something else. In this case, farmland. Too bad it was already occupied."

"Let me guess, they attacked their neighbors for the benefit of your company?" Sjkor ventured a guess.

"Technically it was the opposite. The company sent 'surveyors' under contract from a real estate firm in Butte to a place called Drummond. The land got auctioned off once they could put a value on it. Once that happened the natives were squatters on their own land."

The big merc's jaw opened a little when he understood what was going on.

"So you're telling me that they managed to sell land they didn't own?"

"If it sounds ridiculous, that's because the game was rigged from the start. Glacier had a fair number of business partners who were in on the scheme. Mansfield of course was more than happy to call in the army in protect the interests of its citizens. Glacier got a contract to assist in bringing order.

"Mansfield?"

"It's an old courthouse in Butte," answered David. "Its more or less like Dragonsreach for Whiterun."

"Hmm," Skjor wondered. "Why couldn't the people there just invade their neighbors without the intrigues?

"The answer is land rights. There was some good farmland to be had run by a bunch of tribals who could barely grow enough to feed themselves, when company farms could easily feed the union from that valley. If the clans were admitted or even absorbed into the union, separating them from their land would be more time consuming and more expensive."

"What happened after they were forced off the land?"

Joshua Graham would later talk about the gentle road that led him, a model Mormon of New Canaan to co-found Caesar's Legion. For him the deportations were the first step on his own path to hell.

"A lot of them became bandits. Army ended up deporting everybody they could round up to a penal colony in the east." He still remembered the discomfort he felt at the time.

For a man now cursed to wander, there was something about watching a couple hundred natives getting loaded on a cattle train and forced from all they knew. All they had to do was prod the terrified tribals to the cattle cars.

With angry guard dogs on leash nearby and rifleman posted on the roof of every other cattle car, the Grey Coats from the Lodge would finish uprooting them just as Nebuchadnezzar had once done to the Judeans.

The Nord shook has head in disgust. "I think I can see how you found yourself on the wrong side."

"In time we paid dearly for our greed," he responded in sorrow. "Before long we suddenly had new neighbors in the mountains, some tribe who lived up there mostly for game, who were itching for an enemy to raid. Then we laid tracks to the west and spooked the valley clans of Missoula. After that everyone else from that Eden's Gate cult to the fucking Eaters of Man started nipping on the frontiers."

"What happened to the union?"

"A coup happened. The Brotherhood of Steel, or least the Montana chapter started putting out hits on our leadership after a couple Green Tundra expeditions too many."

"A green tundra?"

David chuckled. "Nothing like Whiterun, its a joke. A pretty dark one at that."

"Well it wouldn't be a tundra with too much grass."

"It has nothing to do with grass. It's in the water which still tastes like metal. It's in the air which burns you inside and outside over time. There are great treasures to be found in the bunkers and the cities if one is smart enough and tough enough to tell the tale. Things of which the Brotherhood of Steel guards jealously."

"Brotherhood of Steel? Are they supposed to be assassins?" Skjor wondered.

"Not quite, though they do operate in shadow an awful lot. But no, they're just another order of zealots who believe that they are mankinds best hope for survival. Sadly, the only way they know how to save the world is to try and keep weapons of mass destruction away from anyone who isn't them. There were a few good elders up there, but to most of them, information is a commodity that they'd sooner hoard then use to benefit the human race they claim to help."

Skjor barked a laugh. "That's a guild for you. Good things only happen to everyone else when the members can benefit and still control whatever line of work they stand for. The Thieves Guild is probably the most honest in that regard."

"Not like the companions I hope."

Skjor gave him a stink eye with his remaining eye. "The Companions were never about being the one and only place for mercenary work." The merc dryly disavowed him. "Also we don't waste time trying to get involved in politics."

"Tell me about the guilds in Skyrim," David had spilled enough of his own story.

"Well, there's the Thieves Guild in Riften. A group of scumbags who steal things and shakedown anybody with a shop. Supposedly, a merchant can hire them to deal with competitors and other dishonest kinds of work. They are a blight on Skyrim, always taking never giving."

"Then there's the Dark Brotherhood. They solve problems for coin just like us, except their solutions are all about murder. They are almost as bad."

"There's the College of Winterhold, which is kind of like a mages guild. Most of the court wizards have studied there."

David grunted. "I got jumped by a mage when I first got here. Won't lie, life might be a little easier if I could shoot fire out of my hands."

"The college tends to turn out just about as many unsavory characters, as they do decent ones. Lot of the smartest people in Tamriel had their start in Winterhold. There are others though who turned to banditry, and became problems that the Companions were called upon to end. Needless to say, we're the only group that can be called a guild and still be respected."

"If the college produces people like Farengar who have decent jobs, why would so many chose to become bandits?" David had to wonder.

"Farengar is a pretty good man for a mage and he took care to study in the right schools of magic. Problem is, mages tend to be arrogant creatures. Destruction magic and Conjuration are probably the most popular types and I'd say the least useful for an honest life. Doesn't seem to take too long before they decide they could get more out of life by hiding out, killing travelers and using the bodies for slave labor or Hircine knows what else."

"You can do that here?" David felt his jaw drop.

"Not legally. Necromancers are usually executed on sight."

He shivered at the idea that someone could even raise dead people. God, this world was also pretty fucked up.

The path narrowed a bit as it started circling around the mountain, past the treeline with snow banks now on both sides. To the left he could see breath-taking beauty around him, mountain ranges spreading as far as the eye could see, snow-capped peaks covered by fluffy clouds. Far below in the valley, a river ran through a forest of trees, green fields far off to our right turning into farms nearer to Whiterun. He could have stood there all day and simply just taken in the view.

"Hold it." Skjor raised his right hand in a gesture as a tower came into view. The Companion took a knee and scanned ahead.

"What is it?" David asked as he came alongside.

"Ahead near the tower. Smell of death."

David couldn't see a damned soul ahead, let alone smell anything.

 _Must be the beastblood._

For being having the ability to turn into a dog bigger than a Yellowstone Snowhound, it shouldn't have been surprising that Skjor's perception was probably off the Vault-Tec charts.

"Let's move," he ordered.

They entered the tower weapons drawn. Fresh blood stains covered the floor, making trails to the tower staircase where they had been dumped. Skjor cursed as he went over the crime scene. In another world people would write detective stories about him.

There was one set of tracks that left the tower and headed up the mountain. Only one set, and they were still a little fresh.

* * *

 **Flokir**

Less than an hour remained before sunrise, when the grim outline of Bleak Falls Barrow came into view.

Not a soul was about when he climbed the steps, and quietly slunk through the squeaking doors at the entrance of the barrow.

On the inside, he looked for signs of life. At the end of the hallway, he saw a handful of bandits asleep in their furs around the charred ruin of the campfire gone cold. With a sentry post dominating the approach to the barrow, they had grown careless.

He crept across the ruined hall slowly and methodically testing the ground on every step before taking it. When they were closer, he could see five of them wrapped in furs and surrounding a dead campfire. With graceful ease, he sneaked past them.

Just past the dead fire, a set of stairs descended into the barrow. He took the stairs, which led to near total darkness.

Flokir laid his right hand flat, and with the smallest amount of effort possible, he channeled his magicka to create a small flame scarcely bigger than a candlelight flicker. It would not do to put out too much light.

The damp passageway, had signs of recent passage and was oft used at that.

He could not say how long it took him to move through the tunnel that wormed its way under the mountain, before he could see dim light from a chamber ahead.

When Flokir entered the room, he noticed the body of one bandit in what Flokir assumed was a puzzle room.

The barrows so he had heard, were monuments to the paranoia of the ancient Nords. Every tomb had a safeguard of some kind to keep out looters, that would often kill those who dared to venture far enough into the ruins.

The body was cold, and by the ugly marks on his body, poison darts had been the killer. Around the wounds, the toxin had darkened the flesh.

Besides the corpse, was the lever that seemed to dominate the room, though it was no longer than his forearm. It was tilted towards him, and the gate it controlled hung open. It would seem someone smarter had opened it. He studied the surroundings quickly hoping to understand what what was needed to open the gate.

Like many of his former classmates from Winterhold, he had visited Saarthal to assist with its excavation. He had seen a few portions of the city beneath the frozen tundra of the Winterhold and remembered a lecture on the significance of ancient Nordic engineering.

The College had secured the ruins and tried to unearth the old city bit by bit in great secrecy, though that would likely grind to a halt once Ulfric returned to Windhelm and called his banners. With only enchantment services and tuition fees to sustain the college, Savos Aren would have little choice but to reallocate their resources for a war that most students would be indifferent at best towards, for a movement that viewed them with disdain at best.

Flokir remembered the symbols on the walls. They were an indication of puzzles, ones that were known in many cases to be unforgiving towards those who did not solve correctly. He took note of the patterns in the room before moving on.

On the other side of the gate, was a modest burial chamber with a low ceiling. A plain sarcophagus stood against the carved rock at the end of a modest dais.

Beside it was a round staircase narrow enough to fit in a well. Its wooden planks though old, were still surprisingly solid. As he drew on his magicka to keep the light burning over his hand, he felt something below him emitting magic.

Could it be the stairs? Flokir wondered. He could not help but wonder if the timber had been enchanted to stay strong in the damp environment over the passage of a few era or more. Certainly it would take far more than a sloppy kick to bring down the wood.

At the bottom, he saw spider webs wherever he turned. Flokir gently waved the flame in his hand so that it would eat away at the thick webbing as he passed along.

"Is someone coming?" He could hear the low nasally accent of a Dunmer. "Is that you, Harknir? Bjorn? Soling? I know I ran ahead with the claw, but I need help."

Flokir rounded the bend to the chamber where the voice came from, and almost walked right into a web that spanned the doorway. He took a deep breath, and allowed the gentle flame in his hand to leap higher as it burned the thicker webbing. The flame was allowed to die as soon as he could slip through.

In the chamber, he could see webbing everywhere. That and spider eggs.

"Who are you?" the dunmer challenged him.

Across the chamber, he could see the figure trapped in the web.

"Oh never mind," spoke the elf before Flokir could answer. "Cut me down before that thing gets us."

Just as he finished speaking, shadow enveloped the room. They both looked up to see one a huge frostbite spider coming into view and poised to strike him.

 _"_ No. Not again. Don't let it get me! _"_ The dark elf screamed in terror.

Flokir calm took a fighting stance and focused his vision on the spider's face as he channeled his inner magicka into a streak of lightning as it tried to leap towards him.

The bolt arched and struck the creature about where the fangs connected to the face. The attack caught the spider off guard, and the frostbite spider landed clumsily on the chamber floor.

He drew his blade and plunged it into one of the front legs before it could recover its stunned senses. As it did, Flokir danced to his left and slashed open two more of its legs while the big spider tried to turn to him.

Fire erupted from his open hand and bathed the wounded spider in flames where it was most vulnerable. It's movement slowed and Flokir took the opportunity to charge in close with his steel leveled for its head.

The blade cleaved through it with ease and instantly killed the animal. It shuddered one last time before collapsing on the floor. Flokir put both hands on the hilt and withdrew the sword from its brain.

"You killed it!" The trapped Dunmer shouted with excitement. "Now cut me down before anything else shows up."

"Where's the golden claw?" He began walking towards the elf.

"Yes, the claw," The ugly bandit replied, "I know how it works. The claw, the markings, the door in the Hall of Stories. I know how they all fit together. Help me down, and I'll show you. You won't believe the power of the Nords have hidden in there."

All he had to do to complete this job, was to simply take the claw from this man and make a break for Riverwood. It would be the smarter thing to do.

But the thief within him would never forgive if he did not try to find the purpose of the claw before giving it back to Lucan. And Flokir could smell opportunity.

"Let me see if I can cut you down," Flokir tried his best to keep his tone neutral.

"Sweet breath of Arkay, thank you." The bandit relaxed a little bit.

"Hold still Dunmer," his open hand spewed flame and he brought it around in the circular motion. "Good thing you people are resistant to fire, right."

The dark elf began tugging against the burning webbing, "It's coming loose, I can feel it."

A few moments later, he fell to the ground. The bandit got up and brushed himself off.

"About that claw now."

The dark elf swiftly bolted down the now open passageway.

He could hear noise from within.

 _Draugr_

He had grown up with more than a few stories about them. They were often mentioned by parents (or a head mistress in his case) to frighten children from wandering too far out of sight. But nobody truly knew how the draugr came to be.

Most seemed to agree that the draugr where followers of the dragon priests of old. Some said they were cursed for serving the dragons. The most interesting theory he'd heard was that of Bernadette Bantien, who had claimed to have found a way to live among the undead.

Her theory was that the draugr were followers of whoever they were buried with, and that they were meant to worship whoever the tomb was built for. By worship, she seemed to mean roam the barrow and allow their undead overlords to feed of what he guessed was some kind of undead essense.

Whatever she had done though, Flokir did not have the time to try.

He entered the chamber behind one of the undead that was following the dunmer.

With ease, Flokir closed the distance and swung his blade at the unprotected neck. The steel easily cut through the draugr and removed the head.

He could see the thief fighting two others who were intently focused on him. The bandit gave ground as they bore down on him.

Suddenly, a huge iron grate swung out behind him and knocked him against the wall taking the undead with him.

The grate began to roll back into its original position, dropping the three on the way.

Flokir quickly snatched the dark elf's satchel, and wasted no time in slipping through the trap and down the next hall.

He peered into the bag. There was some decent loot, a journal, and after fishing around the bag, a golden claw.

The journal was put under light and Flokir opened it to the last entry.

 _My fingers are trembling. The Golden Claw is finally in my hands, and with it, the power of the ancient Nordic heroes. That fool Lucan Valerius had no idea that his favorite store decoration was actually the key to Bleak Falls Barrow._

Flokir smirked, as he stole a look at the shiny golden claw. His finder's fee could wait, he decided as his eyes went back to the journal.

 _Now I just need to get to the Hall of Stories and unlock the door. The legend says there is a test that the Nords put in place to keep the unworthy away, but that "when you have the golden claw, the solution is in the palm of your hands."_

Flokir slipped through burial chamber after another. Sometimes a draugr would stir, but without that fool Dunmer running around making noise, they were pretty easy to slip past. Especially when one already had to watch where they put their feet. All while lining his pack with the occasional artifact. He still had connections through the College who would be able to find buyers.

He continued to descend through the crumbling ruin, eventually arriving in a more caved in chamber with a waterfall that spilled from the left wall, it's stream cascading cross to a gate on the right. But it looked to be another dead end.

 _T_ _here_ _has_ _be a way through here_ , Flokir saw a chain near the gate and gave it a pull. It opened, and he followed the stream down the tunnel it carved over who knew how long.

It brought him to another cave which led him into another tunnel before he was in the barrow again. A lone draugr guarded a large double door, which Flokir dispatched with a forceful blade across its undead throat.

Beyond the Draugr and the chamber it guarded, he found himself in a wide hall. Stone carvings older than Tiber Septim lined its walls, and at the end was a strange door. In its center, were three little holes. He looked at the door and then the claw in his hand. Could it be that simple?

The barrow was every bit a testament to the brilliance of the ancient Nords as it was to their paranoia.

And yet the solution was obvious. Even without the key, the lock could have been easily manipulated. It was almost like the builders were more concerned with keeping something within rather than out.

For a mechanism made of stone, the locks adjusted easily with a combination that matched what the claw had. There was a loud click and then the door slowly started to lower.

Another set of stairs awaited him on the other side, this one feeling just a little bit more tiring than others.

He had woken early, and needed some food from his pack. He could wait however long he needed to rest up before continuing on. Those fools at the top of the mountain weren't going anywhere.

* * *

Author's Note: Semester just ended for me. Its been a crazy ride.

Song of the chapter is based on Highwayman (which was an inspiration for this story). Now that some of the nuances of Skyrim are finding their way to my word count, there is a certain humor to finding the most insane ways of rationalizing the Elder Scrolls universe in the name of making it feel lived in.

Some of my ideas concerning Montana are partially inspired by Mokidd's highly original (though possibly dead) fic Fallout: Montana. I didn't plan for the first section to be death by dialogue but thats where the current took me, and I used the chance to fill in a few blanks on my personal Fallout map (co-authored by Alexeij).

Next Chapter should be far more entertaining.

P.S. Let's try and not talk about Fallout 76. Aside from the incorporation of new soundtrack, concepts and items (mostly weapons and such), and points on the map, that game never happened in this universe.


	13. FUS

_How long was I out?_ Flokir wondered as he opened his groggy eyes.

He had eaten from his pack and washed it down with some watered down ale. After that sleep must have taken him.

Before him was a great cavern, naturally lit by few shafts of sunlight. A waterfall crashed down from above and flowed down the middle of the natural hall. Beyond it, he could see a huge curving wall with covered in writing that he couldn't make out dominating the far side of the cavern. Below it where most of the sunlight rays fell lay a lone sarcophagus. Beside it was a large iron bound chest that screamed ancient riches.

 _When was the last time someone else saw this place?_ To think that this place was sealed eras ago before the Empire came to be.

There was a strange and soothing feeling of peace in the air. Small wonder he had drifted off. He could hear a quiet chanting from the wall as he approached the the stone bridge that spanned over the creek, he climbed the steps to the wall.

A single word on the wall in a language he did not understand glowed a bright blue. As he got closer, he could feel a strange magic from it. Everything within him felt compelled to touch it, which Flokir did.

As he traced the word, the world around him seemed to light up. The magical force emitted by the wall suddenly hit him with a forceful current, and he staggered back. " _Fus_ ," screamed a word in his head.

Behind him, he heard the sound stone grinding against stone. The hairs on the back of Flokir's neck suddenly felt erect as he instinctively turned towards the source of the noise

 _Divines, no._

The great lid atop the sarcophagus slid away. For a moment, all he could feel was paralyzing fear.

A draugr, bigger than any he had seen, was armored head to toe in ancient Nordic steel and holding a great battleaxe. It was staring right at him with two hateful eyes that seemed to turn thin air into a frost. As soon as a foot found the stone floor, Flokir found the wits to run.

He raced down the steps and across the stone bridge.

"FUS!"

There was a shift in the wind, or so it felt like. A gust of something tried to hit him but for the direction he was running, it may well have been a boost.

He could hear the heavy lumbering footsteps of the creature. It moved surprisingly quick for something meant to be undead.

As it began to cross the bridge, Flokir let loose a gout of flame from both hands. The searing heat did little to slow down the draugr, but easily managed to blind the monster.

It raised it's longaxe and swung down in his direction. The blow was clumsy and easily avoided.

Flokir darted to the left and drew his steel. He saw an opening and slashed open some skin on the Draugr's right arm. It didn't even seem to feel anything and brought the two handed ax around for a swing at his torso, which he barely managed to avoid.

He gave ground dodging the heavy weapon until he reached the end of the bridge. Flokir went to the right and spun his way around his opponent, ducking under a swing meant for his shoulders.

From behind, his blade struck the draugr above the knee where it's withered flesh was exposed. It tried to turn around to face him, but he moved in close and thrust the blade through its throat as hard as he could...

And it didn't even kill the draugr.

Instead it simply paused to laugh, if the strangled cry through its partially open windpipe could be called that. It then tired to shout, but no words could come out.

He took two steps back, and threw his open palm forward. A blast of fire hit the undead lord at spitting distance. This time, it did not completely throw it off. A hit from the blunt side of the long ax knocked him from the bridge and into the creek below.

Flokir looked up in time to see it prepare to leap down from the bridge to where he was.

But suddenly, a sword sprouted from its bowels. The hateful blue eyes widened in shock, and an armored hand from behind grabbed the hilt of Flokir's sword and twisted the blade as hard as possible around the neck.

The Draugr finally went limp to reveal the victor to be a large figure in ornate steel armor. The patterns on his breastplate marked him as a companion.

The figure hopped down to the creek bed to get a good look at him.

The warrior's face was vaguely familiar. Dark warpaint crossed by scars lined his eyes, one of which no longer saw anything. His ugly face broke into a smirk.

"I remember you."

"I'm afraid I say can't say the same about you friend," Flokir answered as he tried to get up.

"That kind of thing happens when there's a bounty of seven hundred septims on your hide."

Flokir winced at that statement.

"That's a bit much don't you think? They only wanted me for burglary, forgery and lollygagging if I recall." It was a shame he was a companion and not another hold guard.

"It should be higher. Thanks to you, the Whiterun Guard nearly became the laughing stock of Skyrim"

Flokir laughed, as he managed to stand up. "Will I have to share a cell with Caius?"

The big man seemed to look past him and gave a simple nod. Before he could react, a set of boots landed behind him. He tried to dodge to the side, but an arm suddenly snaked around his neck, and a soaked cloth appeared over his nose.

* * *

He walked in a sleepy daze. That is, if two unyielding hands that pulled him along the way could still be called walking.

Two men of the Wayrest City Watch were dragging him two the chantry of Akatosh. A knight of the watch, made a third member of his escort.

Akatosh was the chief of all the divines, the god of time, and the first of all the aedra. He was the most active of all the divines. By his hands said the priests, The Empire of Tamriel was allowed to exist. His blood of the dragon ran through legends such as Tiber Septim who not only sired a dynasty of dragonborn emperors, but became a divine himself depending on who you asked, as well as Alduin the world eater, the first born of Akatosh and god of end times.

Save for Zenithar, for whom guild membership was an act of blasphemy, Flokir had probably violated the commands of Akatosh more than any other divine.

All around him, was the city as he remembered. He had dreamed it again, and again, so many times. With so many beggars on the street, and desperate, hateful faces following him and every foreigner in the city, it was every bit as broken as the Grey Quarter of Windhelm. Except of course that the Bretons were still at their worst, much fairer to look on.

King Barynia's treason had only happened eight years before. The King of Wayrest had hired corsairs to plunder his own city in exchange for the elimination of political opponents to his rule. It mattered little in the end for him though. He found himself without supporters the moment corsairs entered the port, and disappeared in the aftermath of the sack.

They arrived at the Chantry, when an armored fist of the knight made a knock at the door. "Come in," He could the Patriarch. The door opened, and they came to stop on the threshold of the House of Akatosh.

He could see the knight hand over the sack to a familiar man of the cloth.

"Ah, here you are!" exclaimed the patriarch of Akatosh, looking at him. Any dread Flokir could feel coming here, increased two fold. "It is good to see you well, but what is this? I gave you the candlesticks too, which are silver much like the rest, and for which you could certainly get a hundred Septims. Why did you not carry them away with your forks and spoons?"

Few words in his life had surprised him more than what he had heard that day. Even a few years later, he still could not understand it.

"Patriarch," asked the equally astonished Knight of the watch. "You say that what this man said is true, then? When we found him, he was walking like an urchin on the run. We stopped him to look into the matter. He had the silver in that sack."

"And he told you," the old man grinned, "that it had been given to him by a kind old fellow of a priest with whom he had spent the night?"

One of his handlers failed to suppress a snicker which was met by a withering glare from the knight. Without skipping a beat, he turned back to face priest. "In that case, do we let him go?"

"Certainly," replied the Patriarch.

With a gesture from the officer, they released their hold him.

"Am I being released?" he heard himself ask aloud.

"Yes you are boy, do you not understand?' said one of the guardsmen.

"My child," resumed the Patriarch, "before you go, here are your candlesticks. Take them." He stepped to the table on which they rested, took the two silver candlesticks, and brought them with the sack to Flokir. The rest looked on without uttering a word.

Every bit of Flokir trembled. He took the two candlesticks automatically. Only after his shaky hand put them in the sack, did his hand feel strangely burned for touching the silver.

"Now," said the priest. "Go in peace. By the way, when you return my child, you can always enter and depart through the street door. It is never locked." He the turned to the guards "You may take your leave, men of Wayrest."

They did just that and left. His form struggled to stand up straight and threatened to topple. The Patriarch drew near to him, and pulled the ragged hood from his head.

"Do not forget," said the priest in a low voice "Never forget, that you have promised to use this gift in becoming an honest man. Flokir my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I buy from you; I withdraw it from black thoughts and the spirit of inequity, and I give it to Akatosh.

Flokir did not in the end become an honest man.

* * *

He could hear the turning of wheels. He could feel the world underneath tossing him about.

Something slipped in and out of a hole, jolting his eyes open. The sun was dazzling in his eyes, and he strugged to see the world around him. It was still light out, but the sun would not be out for much longer.

"I think he's finally waking up." A figure to his left pointed in his direction.

The other figure looked him over. "How dangerous did you two say he was?" An Imperial's voice called over his head.

"He's harmless in that position, especially if he can't go wagging his tongue." Flokir recognized the hard voice of the Companion.

His mouth opened, and he tasted a gag wrapped around his head.

"Save it for the Jarl, you'll get a chance to speak soon enough." The balding Companion kicked against the binds on his legs.

"Fortunate for you that we happened by Riverwood when we did," came the more Nordic voice of a man from above him that Flokir could not see.

"Yeah, we probably would have had to make camp an hour or so out of Riverwood, if not for the carriage you hired."

"I suppose you should thank the dragon for that," he chuckled. "We were in Falkreath when it happened, so we took a carriage quick as we could. Keeper Carcette must be warned about Helgen, just as your friend did for Whiterun. By Stendar, the Daedra couldn't have hit Skyrim at a worse time."

The gag did not suppress the snort that Flokir made. The Vigilants of Stendar were reputed for being both well learned (at least by Skyrim standards) yet utterly lacking in sense. The order had been around since the Oblivion Crisis with the goal of rooting out the next Mythic Dawn cult wherever that might be.

They hunted monsters in the countryside and eagerly investigated crimes in the cities always hoping to find justification for their preachings. When they were found, the vigilants were legendary for the zeal they exercised. To them a priest of Azura was no different than say a champion of Molag Baal.

They made open war on the orc tribes in most places, and were known to persecute dark elves to the full extent of their often limited authority. They often felt themselves to be above hold law and became a common headache for most jarls when they went out of their way to create trouble. A previous Vigilant keeper had even been barred from Windhelm for stirring up racial tensions in the city.

Markarth was the only major city where they held any true power. Since the aftermath of the Markarth Incident Jarl Igmund relied heavily on the order to ensure that the influence of old gods of the Forsworn were driven underground. They roamed the streets of Markarth and the safer parts of the reach with an impunity just short of the Thalmor Justiciars.

"You think us foolish thief?" The Imperial asked him. That one was typical for a vigilant from Cyrodil, where the most hard line members came from. "Who else could conjure such an evil out of nowhere? Where except the planes of Oblivion could they have come."

"That's a bold suggestion Tyranus," interjected the companion. How they managed to get along with the companions as well as they did was just a little bit surprising. "Did you find anything at Helgen to suggest Daedric involvement?"

"Well no, but what else could it be?" The arrogant Imperial stuttered.

The Companion only shrugged. "Do you know there are Legionaries right now who think Ulfric called down a dragon?"

"That's foolish talk," he heard the Nord vigilant speak up, this one was a little different. "Ulfric may have shouted the high king to death, but no man can simply call down a dragon. The dragons and their ilk are gone and buried under the hills."

"Until now, it would seem." That vaguely familiar figure on his left pointed out dryly in a slight accent that he would prefer to hide. "But neither of you can guess on the why of things. Why did a great black dragon swoop down on Helgen of its own free will?"

"If it chose Helgen of all places to announce its existence, I'm of mind to say chaos personally." Spoke the Nord Vigilant. "Survivors on the road say the dragon could have wiped out many once they were outside of the castle and out in the open, but instead, it looked on and continued on burning. Even bothered to fly low to the ground when it decided the fun was done. Oh, and Ulfric is free to return to Eastmarch and bring his shadow rebellion into the open."

The cart shifted, and he could feel it pick up speed as it started down hill.

"What was Ulfric's justification for killing the High King?" The stranger with the slight accent asked.

"I can't rightly say. To hear the Stormcloaks talk about it, it's only about freedom to worship Talos."

"But you don't quite believe that do you ... Adalvald?"

"Oh, I do," admitted the vigilant. "It just conveniently leaves out a few things."

"Such as?"

"There's a been a smoldering fury in the old holds these last few years. Every Nord from the lowest beggar to Ulfric themselves talk like they've been cheated at every turn by anyone who isn't one of them, which is at least partly true. Certainly the Empire has not been good to them."

"So taxes?"

"That's a big part of it," replied Adalvald. "Taxes are high, and I fear that Solitude is going to find more ways to separate coin from it's people."

"So how did the Empire manage to keep a lid on it all this time?" Asked the man who was not of Skyrim.

 _Wait a Moment._ He knew that voice.

The mysterious man with the Companion had gotten him captured at Darkwater Crossing not a few days ago by pushing him down a waterfall and into the hands of the law just as the legion closed in.

"Well armies are expensive, so the Empire just chooses to pay off the jarls and their friends to make sure the common Nord will sod off whenever a bad harvest comes around. It's not too different from how they deal with your people in Stormhaven, excepting the subtlety of it all. The Jarls here are pretty blunt so the Emperor can save his pretend shame for those flowery hypocrites running your homeland."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say your heart is with the Stormcloaks with that passion," ventured the man.

Flokir could see a sad smile in the corner of his eye. "We Nords are a passionate people, and our anger has been left to simmer too long. While the Empire takes the clothes from our backs, and the Thalmor defile our sacred traditions, the rich come in from every corner and buy up our land for nothing. They work our children to the bones for a pittance while calling it progress. Imperials are good for business and business is good for Skyrim, they say in their manor homes over the Solitude Arch. You want an argument against the empire? Spend five minute minutes in the Blue Palace." The Vigilant despite his political neutrality was frothing at the mouth.

 _Or maybe five minutes with Maven Black-Briar_ , thought Flokir. Ulfric did promise to curb the influence of many who just happened to be clients of the Guild. Given his ties with the Shatter Shields and the Cruel-Seas though, Flokir wasn't quite ready to believe that.

"But I'm not a fool," his tone softened. "The Thalmor aren't simply going to give up the influence they have in Skyrim. Will continue their raids here no matter how high the cost. I'm glad the Vigilants are neutral, because I feel like a little boy watching my parents fight. Any Nord who supports the Empire has no heart and any Nord who supports Ulfric has no brain."

"As a companion, I'd say that's the best argument for not taking a side," The big sellsword chimed in.

"Your companions, are they sworn to neutrality in such conflicts?" Asked the Imperial. "I imagine there would be much gold to be earned."

"There was a time when Companions were hired as soldiers." The Companion replied. "A true warrior finds his own path and stands for people and places he holds dearest, but sometimes that path stood in the way of their shield brothers and the honor that bonds us to one another. There are few rules in the companions except to honor your shield siblings. A war is a great time to earn coin, but it would both tear our brotherhood apart and much of our image. I'll have to ask Vilkas about it when I get back, but I'm pretty sure its the reason you won't find a Fighter's Guild north of Bruma anymore."

"What ever happened to the Fighter's Guild up here Skjor? I hear they used to be as numerous as the Companions centuries ago." The question came from Adalvald. Before Skjor the companion could answer, they heard a roar.

A roar like that dragon in Helgen. He swore he could hear the flapping of wings.

The cart was jerked in a direction it probably wasn't intended to go. He could hear curses from the driver who was trying to get the wagon under control.

Flokir strugged against his binds. Once again he was in bondage while it roared overhead. The uneven road made the carriage shake violently at the current speed and tossed him between the ends of the wagon bed faster than he could breathe.

Something snapped, and the weight of the wagon tipped to one side spilling the other passengers before it would be ground to a halt.

Instead of slowing down something else broke up front and sent the broken cart off the road if they were still on it. This time, he nearly sailed over the railing, and found himself pressed against a vigilant hanging on for dear life.

The wagon slowed, and their combined weight on was enough to tip over what remained of it. He rolled clear of the wagon and landed on the grass knees first, then his stomach.

His heart beat with a fury that would have dulled him to the world which was already a blur around him.

When he finally felt the strength to lift his eyes, he could make out the shape of a watchtower up ahead. He could see the distant outlines of guards in frantic motions trying to avoid the dragon. It swooped down and let loose a torrent of fire on the guards at the top.

Flokir lowered his head closer to the ground. Maybe the best thing he could do was lay low and wait for it all to end.

As if the divines had read his mind, a pair of strong arms pulled him up.

"Get moving, we stand at the tower!" The Companion bellowed and prodded him towards the battle. Flokir wanted to run as far away as possible, but he was in no shape to elude both his captors and the dragon out in the open. Instead he hobbled as quick as a bound man could go.

He could see the vigilants heading for the tower as well, everyone was running faster than him. Maybe that was the point.

Flokir managed to reach a pile of rubble in front of the tower after everyone else had taken up positions and took cover. He scanned the scene of battle for a weapon.

A pair of hold guards were fleeing from the tower towards the direction of Whiterun. It was only a few moments after he noticed them that Flokir felt a shift in the wind. He heard the wings and saw the great shadow moving in to shroud them. The dragon screamed and fire left its maw bathing one of the guards as it passed. From where he watched, he could hear the burning victim scream until something took away his ability to do even that.

The surviving guard tried to change his direction and make for the nearest cover. The dragon turned around for another pass, but this time went low to the ground and caught the fleeing guard with its teeth. With it came the sickening sound of bone and mail crunching under the jaws.

In the time it took Flokir to piss himself, the guard fell from the sky, his body nearly torn in two. A sword fell with him and planted itself in the earth. _Come and take me_ , it seemed to call out.

Flokir cautiously crawled to the blade, hoping not to draw any attention while bound. He braced his knee against pommel and crossguard and let it hew at his bonds. He grabbed the blade which was reasonably sharp, and went to work on the looser ones that held his legs. Finally he removed the gag on his mouth.

There was something strangely reassuring about steel in his hand, he decided as he cut the last strips away. He might as well be holding a kitchen knife for the good it was worth right now, but it came with an illusion of control. Mastery over one's surroundings, or at least the ability to react to them.

The great beast landed on the ground before the tower entrance and Nirn itself seemed to shudder in fear as all encircled around the dragon were.

It was lighter skinned than the one that had destroyed Helgen and much smaller too, now that he could actually see it. Gold and grey covered its scales, and a row of horns jutted from its back. That was nothing though, compared the great horns over its head that followed the streamlined skull like the ears on an angry Khajit.

 **"I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide!"** It spoke boastfully with a rumbling voice that effortlessly carried, then lunged at the Companion who somehow managed to hold fast against its teeth with nothing but dual blades.

"You think us game, you stupid worm? Retorted the companion.

Stendar turn you to ash!" One of the Vigilants rushed in with a screen of fire managed to get in a swing with his mace. He didn't have time to avoid the tail that swung around and knocked him into a guard.

The other vigilant threw an ice spike at an exposed wing. It was light and fast enough to just barely pierce the skin. In response the dragon took to the sky to shake off the spike.

Flokir saw an opening and sent a lightning bolt of his own aiming for the hamstrings. It flew further up before the arc made the mark and claimed a scaly heel instead. The bolt was just strong enough to numb the senses of most for at least a few moments and cut off the flow of magicka to any who victim needed it all the while.

For a dragon though, was enough to earn a roar. Half in fury, half in shock, it left the dragon as it circled around to breathe fire on the circle that formed around him. All had scattered and this time, not a soul was in the burn path.

A strange and deadly dance took form between the dragon and everyone else. With strong flesh and the ability to fly, it easily outmanuevered the lot of them despite attacks in every direction.

But it couldn't be everywhere at once. No matter where it went, someone would find the blind spot and have enough time to land a blow. All the while, archers from the tower began loosing arrows aimed at the wings when the dragon wasn't pausing to breathe fire on the those atop the tower. Sometimes the arrows actually pierced the skin on the wings.

Before long, it had to come back down. The ground shuddered again with its landing, and the dragon swung its neck around the field to unleash more fire.

The flames came at him and it was all he could to outrun the monster's breath running over a pile of rubble. He jumped from the edge and felt his ankle twist on landing.

Before he could curse, he caught the mysterious foreigner looking in his direction with a spear. The man went into a sprint and headed for him.

Flokir rolled out of his path, and watched him ram the spear through the Dragon's hindquarters. The crack of the shaft snapping was almost as sweet as the Monster's wail of fury.

It took to the skies again throwing the foreigner back. There was less force this time, and most of the blood dripping down the scales was its own now. An ice spike assembled in his hands and he threw it at the underbelly that had turned to face him and the foreigner. This time it did nothing.

Flokir found cover before the dragonfire found him. When the stream fizzled out, its wings took it further into the air. The tower shook a few moments later, and renewed screams of pain reverberated across the plains. The dragon boasted in its language when they settled down. One did not need to know the language to understand the challenge in his voice though.

 ** _"You are brave, your defeat brings me honor."_** It switched to a familiar tongue.

Across the plains he too echoed, and again the ground trembled as it had. This time though, he could feel the ground trembling long after the dragon shouted.

A warhorn sounded in the distance. Between himself and Whiterun shadows climbed up a hill. the outlines of men on foot, two score shadows against the fading light to the west came into view. For just a few slow moments, he almost believed they were saved.

From the tower guttaral laughter filled the air, while they ran over the hill he could see their full profiles heading for them. The sound of beating wings came closer, then flew over his head. The loose formation scattered themselves thinner. Archers unslung thier bows and took a knee. Flokir could only watch the scene that felt so close and yet far away.

Some nocked their arrows, but none could loose them before it swooped down and knocked a hole in the ranks. Panic struck and those closest to the center who seemed to push at each other to get out of harm's way. The line broke fast enough to save, or at least prolong the lives of many.

The dragon turned and for a moment its magnificent wings cast a great shadow against the sunset. It would have been beautiful had it not been trying to kill them.

It swung around and shouted as it did before it spewed fire. Starting along the right flank, it raked the line or what remained of it with a shower of fire and death.

Some ran, some cowered. A few fought the dragon and died in the last lights of day. The horn blew twice, and all those daring or terrified enough to run went for the tower.

"Horses of Whiterun, to us!" Flokir recognized the bellowing voice as that of the Companion. "Take cover!"

The dragon had sat on the doubtlessly blood stained hill watching the guards flee. Only when they got within pissing distance of cover, did it spread its wings, great and terrifying. It took off blotting out the sunset for a moment, then made chase.

It's talons came down and grabed a guard who would have been flung from the ground but for the invention of two other guards. A spear came from somewhere in the cover and went straight for an opened mouth.

Whatever happened, it stunned the monster at the perfect time. It lost hold of its current victim and landed roughly beyond the cover. Like a wounded saber cat, it thrashed around its surroundings unpredictably.

Flokir drew on his magicka reserves for another lightning bolt. He likely wouldn't have enough for another so he had to make it count. Sparks swirled around his fingers, then his hands. Hot air and colder air rushed towards him and a storm field began to form around him. The hairs on his arms began to stand and he knew he was ready.

He took a step forth, and threw his hands forward to unleash the lightning bolt. It struck quick and true against an exposed wing. The purple shock coursed through the thinner flesh of the wing.

In response, it somehow managed to snap its wing around with its form to face him. Two armored figures were knocked down in the process for being too close.

Flokir dived behind his cover in the rubble in time to see the wings spread, but they were slower than they had been. They descended back down, but this time the dragon could not stay in the air before they came back up.

No sooner than it had landed back down, a figure ran up from behind with almost inhuman agility. Scaling the damaged wing with little but sheer force, the warrior ran up the length of the very beast.

The dragon's senses were greatly dulled and before it could react, the warrior planted himself on it's neck and gripped the horns.

"Buck me if you can lizard!" shouted the man on the dragon. It obliged him, or it least tried to. The dragon shook its head violently, but the man didn't even seem to flinch.

"YEEEEEE-HAAHHH!" the warrior screamed with an accent he could not place.

Sensing opportunity, others closed in, weapons at the ready. With the dragon distracted and losing blood, it could only focus a few threats of many. Renewed battle cries rang around the circle formed. Longswords and maces hacked away at the now vulnerable monster.

Whoever landed the killing blow, he could only guess.

 **"Dovahkiin, Nooo!"** A final feeble roar left the maw of the mighty dragon, and it slumped into the blood soaked dirt. It's body went limp and it seemed to stare at him as the life left its eyes.

For a few moments the world felt frozen. The fury and desperation of the battle vanished like mist. It was over as quick as it had began. Or so he thought.

The cool of dusk had settled on them, the breeze kissing his sweat covered skin and his soiled clothes when he saw smoke rising from the dragon. It's gold scales seemed to glow while the grey turned the color of ash.

"Fucking shit!" The one on top swung a leg over the neck and fell off the dragon's corpse. He landed clumsily and twisted an ankle. "AAuuuGGHhh, Shit tacos!"

The corpse erupted in a great fire that bore no heat. In mere moments the Dragon was consumed in a pyre of its own. A glow around the body burned brighter, as the fire consumed all but bones. Suddenly the glow left the corpse...

And went right for him.

An overwhelming sensation came over him. The glow poured into him penetrating his flesh and his very soul. An alien force seemed to fuse with his very being. It was as if senses he did not realize he had were suddenly overloaded in an orgasm of something he could not describe.

"I don't believe it. You're ... Dragonborn!" A guard stammered as if he was forming his thoughts aloud.

"Dragonborn?" Asked another of Whiterun's finest. "What are you talking about?"

"Do you know stories about the Dragonborn. Those born with the Dragon Blood in 'em. Like old Tiber Septim himself."

Flokir was aware that all eyes were either on him or the two guards.

"I never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons." Said another guard.

"There weren't any dragons then, idiot." The first guard chided. "They're just coming back now for the first time in... forever. But the old tales tell of the Dragonborn who could kill dragons and steal their power, just like what we saw!"

"Hey Irileth! You look deep in thought, what you think?"

 _Oh shit_ , thought Flokir. He looked around for a free horse. He wanted out of here quick.

A familiar dark elf stepped into view. "Hmph. Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums on matters you don't know anything about. Here's a dead dragon," she pointed at the giant skeleton. "That's something I definitely understand."

She turned to face him with crimson eyes of disapproval. "I'm not sure I how I feel about the idea of some mythical, divine favored hero also being familiar criminal in our hold."

He gulped.

"We caught him while tending to that bounty." The Companion stepped in, his ornate wolf armor covered in blood. "Dragon came down while the wagon was taking us to Whiterun."

She gestured to the cluster of guards closest to her. "In that case, the Dragonborn will need to be escorted to Dragonsreach, in irons if need be."

He found himself surrounded by four men of Whiterun who wasted no time in prodding him from the scene, and in the direction of Whiterun.

"If you really are Dragonborn, like the old tales," One of the men at arms spoke in a low voice when they were slightly out of earshot. "You aught to be able to Shout. Can you? Have you tried?"

He thought about the shout. Ulfric had used the voice in battle and more recently, to kill Torygg. Could he actually use it?

"Fus!" a newfound force shouted inside him. The sight of the glowing word in the barrow lept in his mind.

Flokir let out a deep breath and let the word bubble up from within, much to the surprise of himself and the guard he was facing.

"FUS!"

* * *

Author's Note: This is officially my longest fic. May it grow ever longer and thicker.

Flokir is the Dragonborn. I'll bet that surprised nobody. I really don't want a Dragonborn who is portrayed as some manner of paragon (at least not without massive character growth). That would be boring and wouldn't jive well with a cast of POVs that are either raging hypocrites, or just ethically challenged depending on viewpoint.

Before I put out last chapter, I revisited my rough outline and wondered if I could not only explain the what, where, and how of the storyline to myself but also the why of things. Had to rework the plot quite a bit, but with all new the webbing between threads and questlines, I came out with something that feels a little more true to the original spirit, and a hell of a lot more satisfying.

Special thanks to the bottle of [freshly drained] huckleberry mead that more or less co-wrote half this chapter.

If you've made it this far, then please for goodness sakes do drop a review. I fucking love those.


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